Furtively: A Sherlolly Collection
by terrified
Summary: A collection of all the Sherlolly bits and bobs that don't quite qualify as standalone pieces of writing. However, they are certainly no less precious. Every Sherlolly moment is a precious one, no matter how furtive. [Ratings range from K to T and I will be individually rating them. But I've labelled the whole collection as Rated T, just to be safe.]
1. Once

_**A/N: **I am all loved up and tangled in emotions right now. Listening to Aleksander With's "Once" has only intensified everything. Hence. x_

* * *

**Once**

Sherlock never believed in second chances. When he got on that plane, he knew that all the chances he had ever had were spent. There was no turning back now. So when he got the call from Mycroft that he was to come back, he was in utter disbelief. There were second chances after all.

From the moment the plane turned back and landed on the tarmac, Sherlock made every arrangement to get himself to Molly Hooper. Racing up the stairs to her flat, he reached her door and slammed his fists into it repeatedly. When the door opened, he let himself in, grabbing her by the wrists as he shut the door behind them. Amid her questions, protests and confusion at his behaviour, he yanked her towards himself and kissed her with all his might. At first, her lips struggled to speak against his mouth, wanting to ask her questions, wanting a word in. Soon, however, she softened, her lips parting with a sigh as she welcomed his kiss, tasting for the first time the proximity with him she had always craved. Sherlock drew from Molly every breath he would need for this second chance at life. He held her so tightly he nearly crushed her. He kissed her so hard and fast he quite forgot to breathe.

When they finally parted, frantic and breathless, Molly touched his face gently, asking him why he had come to her in such a fashion.

He merely leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers, embracing every moment that their skin could touch and answered her softly.

"I almost lost you. Once is enough. I will not lose you again."


	2. Rain

_**A/N:** I hate the rain, but I have the rain to thank for this little Sherlolly moment. x_

Rated: **K**

* * *

**Rain**

"I hate the rain."

"I don't."

"Why does it rain _all_ the time?"

"We live in England."

"I hate it. Almost makes me want to leave the country…"

"You can't."

"Yes, I can."

"I won't let you."

"But I hate the rain."

"I happen to like it."

"That's because you didn't get caught in it, you idiot…"

"Stay still or I will never finish drying your hair…"

"Okay."

"Thank you."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Your robe is gloriously comfortable…"

"I know."

"It makes me want to hug you."

"I know."

"May I?"

"Please."


	3. Smiling

**_A/N:_**_I stole a line from Mary and SH's conversation in TSoT. It was too cheeky not to be used again ;)_

Rated: **T** [for suggestive themes]

* * *

**Smiling**

"We could just leave now, you know? Everyone seems so happy with each other…"

"Sherlock, we can't just abandon all these people and run off somewhere."

"I don't see why not."

"I know you don't. But we can't, okay?"

"Fine."

"It's just a few hours more. You'll survive."

"I'll just occupy myself then."

"What with?"

"Instead of mingling like everyone is insisting I do, I'm just going to sit here and think."

"Sulk, more like."

"No, Molly. I am going to think."

"What about? There are no cases today. It's a day off for us _both_."

"I'm just going to think…about what we _could_ be doing if you had let us escape from this…"

"Stop it…"

"There are empty rooms around, your skirt is frightfully easy to manoeuvre…"

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Lots to think about. Definitely."

"Sherlock Holmes, _stop_ smiling…"

"Well…it's my wedding day."


	4. Lists

_head canon that described how Molly was the only one who made Sherlock really conscious of eating and being healthy. I found that incredibly moving, somehow, and came up with this. x_

Rating: **K**

* * *

**Lists**

Mrs Hudson came home one evening after an exhilarating day at bingo, to a note attached to her stove. She recognised those long scribbles immediately as that of Sherlock's and picked it up to read.

_Morning:  
Tea, toast, scrambled eggs, condiments for toast. (The honey you buy from Fortnum and Mason's is particularly agreeable)._

_Lunch:  
Sandwiches will do. Something cold and something I can pack. (Will most likely be eating at Bart's or on the go.) _

_Dinner:  
If at Baker Street, soup and rolls are fine or maybe a roast. If not at Baker Street, please pack soup in a thermos, pack rolls separately (obviously). If you can find a way to pack that lovely pork roast of yours, I'd be very much obliged. _

_Post-case/Midnight sustenance:  
Mince pies. (Stop being stingy with the brandy.)_

He was oddly sweet, even in the way he demanded things. Even if he had not been sweet, this was a demand Mrs Hudson was glad to accede to, for it marked a change everyone had been waiting for.

The last bit, in particular, made her grin ever so widely.

_P.S. If Molly is at Baker Street, please make any of the following dishes. See list of her favourite foods attached. (I have placed several copies of said list in your larder, on your dressing table and in your stocking drawer. You really should make an index)._

_P.P.S. If Molly is at Baker Street, see pack of earplugs I left on your dressing table. You'll want them._


	5. Because

_**A/N: **A quick drabble. Post-HLV, pre-leaving on a jet plane. x_

Rated: **K**

* * *

**Because**

"Molly."

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to die."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Mycroft told me."

"Then…why would you…"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Why would you tell me this now?"

"Because you were never going to deduce it. Not for the life of you."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes. And this is your blind spot."

"The evidence all points against it. You had all these dates… And then Tom…"

"You really are blind, you know."

"I suppose."

"You are."

"But you still love me."

"I always will."

"Why?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes".


	6. Selective

_**A/N: **Quick random drabble because I love Molly and the way she has so much power over this grown up child, the compulsive sulker, the consulting detective. Hence. x _

Rated: **K**

* * *

**Selective**

Sherlock?

What?

Are you okay?

I'm thinking.

You've been doing that for 72 hours straight.

And I've still not worked it out.

It doesn't mean you can't eat…or rest….or…

Irrelevant.

Sherlock, please.

No, I need to get this right.

Well then could you at least _please_ open the door?

What for?

I am your wife, and I should very much like to go to bed.

Oh, right… of course.

Thank you. Now, am I allowed to kiss you? Or we can't do that while you think?

No, no, that's fine. Please.

So, you won't eat…

Not hungry.

You won't sleep…

Boring…

You won't even have a sip of water…

I'm not dehydrated. Yet.

But it's okay to have kisses?

Of course.

Explain?

Helps me think.

Right…

It's true.

Well, goodnight Sherlock, I'm off to bed.

Wait - I thought —

Nope. Not until you have a bit of dinner, and come lie down next to me and_sleep_.

(incoherent muttering)

I can hear your muttering, Sherlock.

Fine. Is there any soup left?

Yes, I've left some on the stove.

Just one before I go?

All right. Just one.


	7. Screams

_There is nothing happy about this drabble. Listening to heavy music can only result in a heavy heart. I'm sorry :( x_

**Rated: K**

* * *

**Screams**

He screams inside.

It is loud, it is raw, almost primal.

His face, however, registers nothing.

His eyes are wide. They are cold.

They are so clear, clearer than ever.

There is a wave that wants to drown them.

He fights it off.

Years of fighting it have made this possible.

He does not cry.

No, Sherlock Holmes does not cry.

Neither does he scream.

Not like this anyway.

It is but a body.

Has he not seen bodies before?

Has he not seen bodies like _this_ before?

So many crime scenes, so many morgues.

There is blood. Not a lot, but there is blood.

It stains his fingers.

He touches the wet hair that mingles with the blood.

_Sherlock, we've got to go. Easy does it, mate. We can't stay here forever. _

They whisper it all around him.

They coax him to go.

Sherlock Holmes does not scream.

They whisper, but his heart begins to scream.

He pauses, realising the presence of his _heart_.

How strange, to have presence triggered by absence.

_Goodbye, Molly Hooper_, he whispers.

He gets up.

He gets up to go.

He screams inside.


	8. Solace

_**A/N: **A quick drabble because I hate the rain, I am sick of work and I need me some Sherlolly fluff. x_

* * *

**_Solace_**

Sherlock stepped into the morgue where he knew Molly was working this afternoon. In his hand was a tray that held two piping hot coffees. When Molly saw him come in, she gave him a quick smile and gestured to her tiny desk just a little away from the three bodies that had been wheeled out.

"Why the long face?" he asked, setting the coffee on her desk as she walked over to him.

"I don't like the rain," she answered plainly, placing her clipboard on her desk and picking her coffee up.

"You can barely hear it here," said Sherlock, taking a sip from his own coffee and staring down at her curiously. "You're in the underbelly of the hospital, Molly, the rain is barely audible…"  
"Yes, but I can still hear it," she answered with a frown, "It's a muffled version but I can still hear it pouring down.

Molly truly disliked the rain. It disturbed her peace and unsettled her. The detective watched as she quietly sipped her coffee, but not without frowning ever so slightly from the hushed rain that fell outside the concrete walls of the hospital.

Her obvious irritation amused him, almost endearing her to him. Although, frankly, the both of them were too far along for it to be called _endearment,_ really. Sherlock put his coffee down, and reached for Molly's as well, gently taking it from her hands.

"What's the matter?" she asked, letting him take the drink from her.

When their coffees were securely back in their trays, Sherlock removed his scarf and gently placed it around Molly. Slowly, he then drew her to him, making sure the scarf wrapped round her ears as his arms wrapped around her tiny frame. Once she was securely tucked against him, he could feel the smile on her face as she rested her forehead against his shirt, relaxing in the warmth of his arms. So close was she to him that even the edges of his coat extended to shield her.

"Feeling better?" he asked, planting a soft kiss on the top of her head.  
"Very much so," she replied, smiling against his shirt.  
"Good." he answered. He could feel her tension ebb away, and he was glad for it.  
"I still don't like the rain," she muttered, reaching to adjust the scarf tighter around her ears.

The detective laughed and continued to hold her close.

"I suppose, I don't really mind it," he whispered, as he quietly marvelled at how delightfully perfect she felt in his arms.

**End**


	9. Unwrapped

**A/N: **_Sometimes I like to imagine the whole Christmas scene with Molly and Sherlock was just a set-up. I like to imagine that they'd been together for ages, but for safety, privacy and mostly because of Sherlock's utter paranoia that Molly should ever get hurt because of him, they've kept everything under wraps. Here's a drabble of what I like to think really went on, that Christmas evening. :) x_

_Rated **K**_

* * *

**Unwrapped**

_My brother is going to call you in a minute. - SH_

_How come? What's happened? - MH_

_You'll be needed at the morgue. - SH_

_Who died? - MH_

_The woman. - SH_

_What?! I wasn't expecting that. - MH_

_Neither was I. So, you'll need to do a bit of improvisation. - SH_

_Yup. Got it. - MH_

_Speaking of which, I just wanted to clarify - you looked wonderful tonight. - SH_

_Thanks. Your disgust was very convincing though. - MH _

_It's all about improvisation. - SH_

_Haha. I suppose. Was my heartbreak convincing too? - MH_

_Absolutely. Why do you think I caved in and kissed you on the cheek? - SH_

_Oh. You're right. We had decided, no physical contact. Was wondering why you broke the rule. - MH_

_I've broken many rules because of you, Molly Hooper. - SH_

_Really? I didn't know. :) - MH_

_Tolerating emoticons in text messages, is one. - SH_

_How generous of you. :p :D :))) ;) :xoxoxoxo - MH_

_That last bit, I don't mind… - SH_

_Well, we're going to be busy tonight. No time for that I imagine. - MH_

_There is always time. - SH_

_You're one to talk. - MH_

_Shall I come over now? - SH_

_No, you're on a case. You're the one that made that rule. - MH_

_But it's Christmas. - SH_

_But someone's died. - MH_

_Everyone dies. - SH_

_You're on a case, Sherlock Holmes. - MH_

_It's Christmas, Molly Hooper. - SH_

_Fine. Come on over then. I've not given you your actual Christmas present yet. - MH_

_Ten minutes. - SH_

_See you. xoxo - MH_

_:) - SH_


	10. Feelings

**_A/N: _**_Random drabble triggered by Sherlock's Khan hair and my need for pie haha… It's silly, but I hope it provides a bit of a fluffy, Sherlolly laugh. :) x  
_

* * *

**Feelings**

"Molly…"

"Who are y—, oh."

"It was for a case…lots of wig-wearing.."

"It's fine…"

"It is?"

"Yes, yes it is. Now, what did you come here for?"

"Oh, right. How do you feel about kidneys?"

"They're…not a bad thing. Good to have, flushes the system, a delight to dissect."

"No, no, not _kidneys_."

"Are there other…_kidneys?"_

_"_Yes. How do you feel about steak and kidney? Sustenance."

"I quite enjoy them."

"Good, good. Cafe just across from the latest double homicide. Absolutely worth the time spent eating"

"Well, thanks for the recommendation. I'll be sure to give it a go."

"Excellent. I'll pick you up at six."

"Whatever for?"

"For steak and kidney pie. A marvellous choice for dinner, if I may say so myself."

"Why are _you_ picking _me_ up for dinner, Sherlock?"

"I happen to love that pie."

"Right. What has that got to do with me?"

"I also happen to feel that way about you."

"What?!"

"See you at six, Molly."


	11. Seeing Light

_**A/N:** A songfic prompt fill for 'Ultraviolet' by U2. xx_

* * *

**Seeing Light**

The ache in his chest throbbed steadily as he made his way out of the hospital. Climbing out of the window had not helped with the heaviness in his head. Sherlock had contemplated ripping the bag of morphine along with him, but he figured it could be sorted later. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

By the time he arrived at her flat, he was in such a state that Molly forgot her anger from the afternoon and ended up in a state of panic. She quickly nudged the heap that was Sherlock Holmes' internally bleeding body into her flat and shut the door.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" she exclaimed, trying desperately to check his vitals.  
"I just…I wanted…" he paused to cough. The pain in his chest was choking him.  
"You can explain later," Molly said authoritatively, "Now, tell me, do you think you can make it to the sofa?"

With a nod and a great wince, Sherlock, with Molly's help, stumbled towards her sofa and collapsed on it in a heap. Within a few hours and with very discreet help from Meena, Molly had Sherlock settled safely and comfortably on her sofa, his vitals nice and steady. Molly exhaled, sinking to the floor as she leaned her head back against the sofa, inadvertently resting her head against the side of his hip.

Sherlock let his hand drop down, brushing past her shoulder and tried to reach for her hand. Molly did not want to reciprocate, but when she saw the blue veins under his pale skin, worry flooded her heart once more and she gripped his hand tightly, clutching it close to her chest.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" she asked again, whispering angrily.  
"I wanted to apologise for this morning, and wanted to assure you, that it was all for a case." Sherlock said, "Truly."  
"Why are you bothering to assure me?" she asked with a wry laugh.

The sofa creaked and Molly could hear Sherlock hiss quietly under his breath as he removed his hand from her and struggled to sit up.

"Don't be stupid, what are you doing?!" Molly asked, getting up in a hurry to ensure his drips were all in place.

"When this is all over, Molly," Sherlock said, managing a smirk, "We're going to have fish and chips."  
"Have I given you too much morphine?" she remarked dryly.  
"Or, if you'd prefer, we can go to Angelo's."  
"I'd prefer if you shut up and got better, Sherlock Holmes," she answered.

Sherlock laughed dryly and reached to pry her reluctant hand from underneath her folded arms.

"I'm much better already, thank you." he said.  
"Good," she remarked stoically, "Now, may I have my hand back please?"  
"No."  
"No?"  
"I never imagined I'd see your hand without a ring again." Sherlock confessed, "Now that it's without one, I don't intend to let it go."  
"What are you on about?" she asked, finally cracking a smile.  
"Besides, the coat and scarf look far better on me," he said, looking up at her with a twinkle in his eye.

It was Molly's turn to laugh now.

"I suppose it does," she said, relenting as she let him pull her in for a kiss.


	12. Red

_**A/N: **A songfic prompt fill for 'Red' by Taylor Swift. xx_

* * *

**Red**

It had become a tradition now, to take holiday shifts at the morgue. Molly hummed softly to herself as she wheeled back the last body of the night.

"Oh, hello," she said, not looking up from her clipboard. "Skipping the Baker Street do, are we?"  
"I've played the violin, done a toast, so the boxes set for me have been ticked." he answered, tucking his hands into his coat, "Consider this 'leaving early'."

Molly smirked and walked to her desk, setting her clipboard down.

"Here," he said, suddenly appearing beside her.  
"What's this?" she asked, amused.  
"Isn't it obvious?" he muttered.  
"With you, I can never be sure," she answered, smiling wryly.

Her nimble fingers undid the silver ribbon and carefully pulled the navy blue paper apart. A small lipstick fell into her palm and she stared at it, a little gobsmacked. It was the very same brand and make as the one she had worn those Christmases ago.

"Are you being funny, Sherlock Holmes? Because I've had it with y—"  
"The red. It suits you." he said, interrupting.  
"I've stopped wearing it," she said, leaving it on her desk.  
"Good," he answered.

Before she knew it, Sherlock reached for her and kissed her, pressing his lips earnestly against hers. Molly gasped, startled, but he continued to kiss her, undeterred. When he was done, he stepped back and looked right into her eyes that had grown wide as saucers.

"So, you're not going to wear it?" he asked.  
"No." she answered.  
"Good," Sherlock repeated.

His eyes twinkled and Molly raised an eyebrow quizzically at him.

"What are you on about, Sherlock Holmes?"  
"I much prefer it without the lipstick," he said, matter-of-factly.  
"_It_?"  
"I intend to kiss you a lot more, Molly Hooper," he said, turning to exit the morgue, "No matter how much the colour did suit you, the lipstick would only get in the way."


	13. Pretense

_**A/N: **Asongfic prompt fill for 'Can't Pretend' by Tom Odell. xx  
_

* * *

**Pretense**

"Sherlock, you don't need a doctor."  
"Of course I do."  
"Well, _I'm_ a doctor."  
"That is as maybe. Your stitching is clumsy,"  
"No, it's _not_. Besides, you don't need stitches anyway."  
"Doesn't matter. I'm off to Bart's."

She was at her desk when he sauntered in. Looking up, her eyes homed in on the bruise on his cheek and the little gash at the tip of his cheekbone. Automatically, she got up from her seat as he followed her to the supply room. He got out the stool he always sat on whilst she rummaged for some cotton balls and ointment.

"What happened then?" she asked, her voice muffled from searching deep in the cupboards.  
"Client took a swing at me. Told his wife that he was the embezzler."  
"Should've exhibited more tact, Sherlock," she said, clicking her tongue as she returned with supplies.  
"He didn't deserve tact," he answered smugly.  
"When it comes to you, nobody does," Molly remarked with a laugh.

Sherlock loved the way she worked so silently but so deftly. She meticulously sanitised the gash and painstakingly examined his bruise. When she was satisfied, she began to pack up whilst Sherlock stood up and returned the stool. They re-adjourned in the centre of the supply room, her eyes still scanning his face one last time for any injury she might have missed out.

To Molly's surprise, Sherlock leaned in and kissed her. She smiled against his mouth, reciprocating the kiss as she wrapped her arms around him. They were interrupted only when Sherlock's phone chimed suddenly from an incoming message. With one arm still around Molly, Sherlock reached for his mobile and swiped at the screen. He stifled a laugh before returning the phone to his pocket, and returning his arm to properly embrace the woman he loved.

"What's so funny?" she asked, resting her cheek against his chest.  
"John's come to Bart's but can't find me at the emergency wing."  
"He's going to find out one day, you know, Sherlock," Molly said with a laugh. "Everyone will."  
"Try me," Sherlock said, smirking.  
"Remind me again, why we've to play pretend all the time?"  
"I can pretend not to know and love you, Molly," Sherlock answered solemnly, "But I very much doubt I could feign nonchalance should anything happen to you."  
"Sherlock…"  
"That's just how it has to be."  
"In your case, I guess that's love." she said, smiling against his shirt.

Sherlock kissed her hair and held her tighter to himself, relishing this luxury that he dared not permit outside closed doors.

"I guess it is," he answered.


	14. Mantra

**_A/N: _**_A songfic prompt fill for 'Take Me To Church' by Hozier. xx  
_

* * *

**Mantra**

Sherlock was relentless. Molly could not understand why he was wasting his genius on such a trivial pursuit.

_Look, I have a ring. I'm going to marry him. _

She had told it to him over and over again. In all sorts of ways, at all sorts of volumes, at various times of day.

_I love him, I love him, I love him! _

Each time he pursued her, she told him the same thing like a mantra she had indoctrinated herself with.

In the end, not only had Sherlock pushed her over the edge, he had actually succeeded, and pushed Tom out of her life. She gripped the ring she no longer wore so hard in her palm that the gems quite nearly cut her.

When Sherlock finally made his message clear, conveying to her the purpose of his pursuit, Molly caved in. Tom's place in her heart had only served to mask the gaping chasm Sherlock had left in her chest. She understood now. Molly did not want to agree, nor did she want Sherlock to be right, but she finally understood.

With every breath they took, whether in synchrony or ragged desperation, Molly clung to his skin just as his mouth never left hers. With every collision and every explosive heartbeat, Molly could only utter the very truth of the matter.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._


	15. Memory

**_A/N:_**_ Based on a one-word prompt: "Memory". xx_

* * *

**Memory**

_Me-mory-yyyy…. all alone in the moo-oooon light…. I can smile at the old daaayssss….._

Sherlock sighed as he folded the newspaper into quarters, and then again into thick, un-quarter-able quarters from sheer frustration.

"What's the matter, dear?" said Mrs Holmes as she brought a cup of tea out for her son, "You're going to crumple that paper if you do that."  
"If you stopped belting out show tunes in my flat I might be less inclined to crumple things," he muttered under his breath.  
"I don't know why you dislike them so much," his mother muttered in return, "Perhaps you should join us for the matinee this Sunday, I got you a spare ticket, just in case. _Cats_ is a classic…"  
"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, before clearing his throat and staring sheepishly at his mother, "I mean, uh, no, _thank you_."

Sherlock's mother glared hard at her son as she set down a tray of biscuits at his side table. The detective gulped a little nervously and contemplated leaving the room or hiding in the fireplace.

"I'll go if you like," came a voice from the doorway. Molly had just come up the stairs to Baker Street and greeted everyone with a gentle smile. "I'd always wanted to see _Cats_. Never got the chance."  
"Oh, then you _must!_" exclaimed Mrs Holmes, just short of leaping over to hug the petite pathologist.  
"Wonderful! So this weekend, was it?"

Molly and a very delighted Mrs Holmes wandered off into the kitchen to make Sunday matinee plans. Sherlock smirked at how Molly had saved the day - again. He settled comfortably back into his armchair only to be startled by a quiet cough. It had come from his father. Somehow, Sherlock had neglected to notice his father who had been sitting at Sherlock's desk reading articles all morning.

"You know, Sherlock," his father began.  
"Hmm?" the detective responded, unfolding his crumpled newspaper.  
"You should marry her." his father said, before lowering his voice down to a whisper, "Seems a good catch."

The detective chuckled to himself as he continued flipping through the newspaper.

"I already have." Sherlock replied, almost smugly.  
"I beg your pardon?!" his father exclaimed.  
"Oh, do keep up, Dad." Sherlock said.  
"I don't remember a wedding…"  
"Well, I do." Sherlock answered.

He looked up from his paper and spotted the figure of his wife chatting with his eager mother in the kitchen.

"Why didn't you tell any of us?" his father pressed.  
"What for?" Sherlock answered, momentarily flashing back to the day he married Molly.  
"What do you mean,_ what for_?" exclaimed his father, perplexed.

Sherlock smiled as he spotted the inconspicuous silver ring that Molly wore casually on her index finger. Nobody needed to know, really.

"The day I married Molly is a day I'd like to always remember," Sherlock explained, "And it's a memory I'd like to keep as ours alone."  
"Well, you could have at least told us—"  
"Do you remember _your_ wedding, Dad?" Sherlock asked, interrupting.  
"Well, your mother had the most beautiful dress on, and I remember she wore her mother's pearl bracelet. Something about having _something borrowed_. Also, her shoe broke halfway and she laughed till she cried at the altar…" he recalled with a laugh, "She cried so much I was practically kissing her tears by the end of it!"  
"There, you see," Sherlock said with a smile.  
"See what?"  
"What's the point of having anything, or anyone else around," Sherlock said, "when all you really do remember, is _her_?"

His father smiled and leaned back in his chair. The old man looked up at his wife and upon seeing her smile and hearing her laugh, thought back on his own wedding.

"Ah, the memories," the old man murmured wistfully.

Sherlock, too, looked up at his own wife, and smiled at his father's words.

"No," he remarked quietly, "_Memory_."


	16. Holiday

**_A/N:_**_ Based on a one-word prompt: "Holiday" xx_

* * *

**Holiday**

"You sure you don't want to come with us?" John asked, checking the tags on his suitcase. "Surely you'd fancy a bit of sun? A bit of the seaside?"  
"Mm, not really my area," Sherlock replied from behind a newspaper.  
"So you're going to spend the holiday season, just…sitting there with your paper?" John remarked, crossing his arms staring at his friend.  
"A case or two might pop up, you never know. A good old Christmas heist might occur at some large store somewhere." the detective replied without missing a beat.  
"And that's your idea of a holiday?"  
"In some sense, yes," said Sherlock.

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. John, thinking it was Mary with their taxi, rushed downstairs.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise.  
"Hello, John," Molly said with a smile and a nod.  
"Uh— Need a hand?" he asked, gesturing to the two large iceboxes she was carrying.  
"Please," she said, gratefully, offering one to him.  
"I think I can manage both," he said kindly, taking them both.  
"Thanks, John." said Molly gratefully.

As they made their way up the stairs, John marvelled at the weight of the two huge boxes.

"Blimey, what've you got in here? Haven't killed someone have you?" he joked.  
"Well, um—" Molly responded with a small laugh.  
"Oh…_Oh_. Christ… Sherlock!" John bellowed as he finally emerged at the top of the stairs with the two dubious containers.

Upon hearing his voice and seeing the duo emerge at the door to the flat, Sherlock grinned with delight and set his paper down.

"Wonderful timing, Molly," Sherlock said, striding over to the entrance, "John was just leaving."  
"Shall I, uh, pop these in the fridge?" she asked, pointing to the iceboxes which John had set down as soon as he could.  
"Yes. John's going on holiday so I've had the fridge cleared…"  
"So _that's_ why you were so keen on 'housekeeping' the other day!" John remarked, bringing his palm to his forehead.

Sherlock stepped forward to help Molly with one of the boxes. The both of them placed the iceboxes on the table and peered gleefully at the contents. Sherlock's eyes gleamed with delight, prompting him to turn to Molly and planting a quick kiss on her cheek.

"_Excuse me_." John exclaimed, gobsmacked, "Did I just see you _kiss _Molly?"

Sherlock chuckled and proceeded to remove the neatly zip-locked foot from the ice-box and looked proudly at Molly who was carefully sorting the packets of eyeballs.

"Well, it _is_ the holiday season." Sherlock remarked with a smile, leaning to kiss Molly on the cheek once more.


	17. Cake

_**A/N: **Based on a one-word prompt: "Cake" xx_

* * *

**Cake**

"How many of those?" asked Sherlock.

"Four," she answered, handing them carefully to him.

"Are they of the correct right size?"

"Yes. Large, as instructed." she replied.

"Thank you," he said.

"How many mils?"

"600. Thankfully we still have a few large beakers." Molly answered.

"Perfect. Thank you." said Sherlock, taking the beaker from her. Making sure not to spill a single drop, he poured the contents into the large glass container before them.

"How much for this one?" he asked, pointing to his list.

"One teaspoon…"

"That isn't a proper unit of measurement!" he exclaimed, looking up sharply.

Molly laughed knowingly and passed him a pipette filled with exactly 5.91939 millimetres of vanilla essence.

"Better?" she asked, giving him a reassuring peck on his cheek.

"Yes," he muttered, taking the pipette from her and dropping the liquid into his bowl of batter.

"We could have just gone to the—"

"My daughter is _not_ having shop bought cake for her birthday."

Again, Molly chuckled and kissed him, this time, on his temple.

"Happy birthday, Stella Holmes," Molly said, turning to their giggling two-year old who sat in her high-chair, watching her parents make her quite possibly the most precisely made birthday gateau in the world.


	18. Lies

_**A/N:** A prompt-fill for the following: "__Sherlock and Janine becomes close friends after the whole Moriarty issue is sorted out. Molly becomes increasingly sad and withdrawn. Sherlock notices after some time." xx_

* * *

**Lies**

It took another Christmas party at Baker Street for him to realise he had made the mistake - again.

The mistake of making Molly feel she was worthless and insignificant, when really, it was the opposite. It had always been the opposite.

It made sense now, why she had avoided all social events at the Watson's, or left early during specific Baker Street gatherings. He had not seen the pattern at first, but soon it was clear. Janine had been the common denominator.

Sherlock and Janine had callously, though inadvertently, re-enacted the scene in which John had found them. They recounted how Janine had been clad only her knickers and a shirt - Sherlock's shirt, of course. They had even demonstrated the awkward and insincere kisses that had been exchanged. It did not help that there had been plenty of wine to go round. The laughter seemed louder, the re-enactments, cruder, and the jokes, harsher.

No amount of inebriation could have made Sherlock miss the sight of Molly Hooper, out of the corner of his eye, carefully excusing herself to Mrs Hudson and leaving the flat. Sherlock hurriedly excused himself, leaving the Watsons, Greg and Janine to stop and stare for a bit, only to return to their laughter and wine.

"Molly!"

She turned and stopped, even managing a smile.

"Sorry, I had uh…Bart's. Something came up. Work… thought I'd check it out," she said, her smile firmly in place.  
"Your staccato-ed speech tells me otherwise, Molly Hooper," he answered.  
"I have to go, Sherlock," she said, forcing another furtive smile, "Happy Christmas,"  
"I'll come with you," he said, brazenly following her as she walked away from him.  
"It's fine, Sherlock. Go back."  
"No, I'll come. You know how much I hate the Christmas parties. I'd much rather see something interesting," he said, "What's happened then? New bodies? A case, maybe?"

Molly stopped hard in her tracks and turned to face him. Her eyes were blank and her expression was so still it quite stunned the detective.

"No, I lied." she muttered.  
"So, have I," he said.  
"What are you talking about?" she asked with a wry laugh as she turned to look at a passing car.  
"By not telling you the truth…" Sherlock said, taking a deep breath, "I have lied."  
"The truth?" Molly asked, turning back to face him.

It was Sherlock's turn to look away now. There were not enough passing cars for him to distract himself with, so he eventually turned back to face her.

"Yes…the truth," he said, tucking his hands into his coat pockets.  
"O-kay," she said, eyeing him quizzically.  
"Would you like to hear it?" Sherlock asked, looking up suddenly.  
"Sure," Molly answered with a shrug.  
"Might take a while…" he said, reaching for her shoulders and turning her around.  
"How long?" she asked, wondering what he was doing grabbing her like that.

Sherlock moved to stand beside her. He reached for her hand and looped it through his arm, keeping her right at his side.

"Forever," he said, turning to smile at her.  
"You're being ridiculous," Molly retorted, but found herself unable to suppress a smile.  
"Perhaps," Sherlock answered.

The pair began a slow walk down the street. Molly had not the faintest idea where Sherlock was taking her, but it did not seem to bother her at all.

"Molly," said Sherlock, all of a sudden.  
"Mm?"  
"Would you like to have coffee?" he asked.

Molly stared back at him, bewildered. With a chuckle, she slipped her hand out from his looped arm and adjusted her coat.

"Black, two sugars. I'll be at Bart's," she said, before sauntering away.


	19. Costumes

**_A/N:_** _Prompt fill for the following: "victorian soulmate sherlolly"_

_I_ _don't do Victorian!Sherlolly, probably because I don't know how to do Victorian!Sherlolly :x  
So this is what I managed to conjure up. Forgive me! xx_

* * *

**Costumes**

"We've only got an hour left, Sherlock, what are we going to do?" Molly asked, absentmindedly rummaging through piles of clothing on their bedroom floor before giving up and collapsing into bed.

Sherlock stared at the fan of brown hair that now blanketed his knee and smirked in amusement. He closed the book he was reading and sat up, being careful not to jolt her.

"I know nothing about the Victorian era," she muttered,  
"Neither do I. Except there was that one case where—"  
"Why do people always like to invite us to costume parties?"

Sherlock laughed quietly and reached for Molly, coaxing her into an upright position.

"You know, I don't believe in soulmates, but we just might prove the exception," he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.  
"What are you on about…" Molly asked, still flustered and leaned over to grab a random pile of clothing off the floor and tried sorting them on her lap.  
"We loathe the same things, we love the same things," Sherlock remarked, "Both of which are rarities I never imagined would exist."  
"That's sweet of you," Molly replied, distracted, "But what _are_ we going to wear to this bloody—"  
"We don't have to go," Sherlock interrupted gently, taking the items of clothing off her lap.  
"We don't?" asked Molly in earnest, with a sharp turn of her head.  
"Nope." he said, planting a reassuring kiss on her forehead.

Molly smiled and seemed to relax instantly. She exhaled gratefully and got up, happy to return all the 'costumes' she had managed to dig out back into their wardrobes and chests, hoping to never have to rummage for them again. Sherlock too, looked through the pile he had taken from Molly, untwisting the items of clothing from each other.

"Although," he said, all of a sudden.  
"Hmm?" she asked, looking up at him with a pirate hat in her left hand and a grecian robe in her right.  
"I certainly don't mind their corsets…" he said, tossing the peach-coloured Victorian corset to Molly.

Molly caught the corset, examining its embossed fabric and the intricate teal ribbons that decorated the contours generated from its whalebone frame. The corner of her lip rose in a knowing smirk as she looked up at her husband who sat in faux nonchalance on their bed, but with an unmistakable glint in his eyes.

"Neither do I," she remarked, grinning as she tossed the corset back at him and began to put up her hair.


	20. Crook

**_A/N: _**_A songfic prompt fill for "Love Love Love" by Of Monsters and Men. xx_

* * *

**Crook**

"Has anyone seen Molly?" Mary asked walking over to John and Sherlock who were, rather unusually, having a decent conversation.

John shook his head and turned to Sherlock to see if he knew. The detective merely shrugged his shoulders, looking away from Mary as he took a sip from his wine glass.

"What do you need her for?" Sherlock asked casually, his eyes scanning the restaurant.  
"Well, she's supposed to be popping the champagne with Tom in about…five minutes," Mary said, glancing at her watch, "This _is_ their engagement party after all."  
"It wouldn't be one without her, would it…" John joked, only to earn a raised eyebrow from Mary and a smirk from Sherlock.  
"No, it wouldn't," Sherlock replied, downing the rest of his wine before walking away.

Mary and John stared after the tall, retreating figure of Sherlock Holmes and wondered where he was headed. However, they shrugged their shoulders and carried on looking for the missing fiancée.

Sherlock made his way through the guests, hoards of unimportant people gathered in the tiny restaurant that had been booked for the occasion and heaved a sigh of relief when he pushed through the doors that led to the kitchen. The guests were suffocating, and he questioned the wisdom of having agreed to come down at all. It was quiet, or at least much quieter than it was outside. It certainly was less insufferable than being outside, having to _socialise_. Nobody in the kitchen paid any attention to this outsider without an apron on.

"Now, let's see if I'm right…" the detective muttered to himself.

Sherlock wove past lines of bent backs, occasionally encountering an impatient _Oy! _when he accidentally got in the way of a chef or server. At last, he found what he was looking for. It was virtually silent now, as he pushed through the clear, plastic curtain.

All he could hear was the hiss of cold air and the hum of machinery. It was a bit chilly, but not unbearable. Sherlock rubbed his hands and slowly walked towards the cluster of large meat freezers. Sherlock looked left and right as he walked through the narrow aisle between freezers when just then, he spotted a yellow flower, sticking out from behind a low, white freezer. He smirked and walked towards the flower.

"They're looking for you," he said, moving to sit beside the huddled figure of Molly Hooper. She hugged her knees so tight that the skin of her knuckles was stretched white.  
"Oh," was all she could say. She kept her eyes forward, not acknowledging Sherlock's figure beside her.

Sherlock, knowing where he was headed, had brought his scarf with him. Gently, he draped it around Molly who had gone a little pale from the chilly air-conditioning.

"Feels a bit like Bart's, doesn't it?" he remarked quietly, taking care to keep her ponytail out of the scarf's loop.  
"Is that how you knew I'd be here?" she asked, turning to him at least. There was a small smile on her face and it pleased the detective.  
"I always know where to find you, Molly Hooper," he said, leaning his head against the metal.  
"I'll be sure to give Tom your number, in case I ever go missing," she said with a wry laugh.  
"You could go missing now," Sherlock suggested.  
"Am I not already missing?" she asked, turning to Sherlock.  
"Well, now that I've found you, I suppose the right thing to do is to get you back in there," he said wistfully.  
"Since when did you care about doing the right thing?" Molly remarked, smirking. "You're practically a crook in detective's clothing."

The detective sat up and turned to look at Molly. As she stared at him, wide-eyed, a small smile began to appear on his face.

"What?" she asked.  
"You're right." he said.  
"About?"  
"Doing the right thing," he answered.

Sherlock stood up and extended his hand to Molly, pulling her up to her feet as well.

"Never has _not_ doing the right thing, felt like the most right thing to do," he said with a grin.

He took Molly's hand and began to walk with his head looking up, searching for something in the ceiling.

"A-ha," he whispered in delight.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette and his light. With a quick flick of the lighter, he was puffing away in the cold room they were in. Molly stared at him, puzzled, while he smoked like a chimney.

"Sherlock, why are you—"

She was interrupted when a loud bell screeched through the building and jets of water gushed out from above them.

"Come on!" he exclaimed, grabbing her hand and rushing out of the building. They ran and ran until they ran out of street and ended up at a dead end with only a few empty bins for company.

"Molly Hooper, your engagement is over," he said, wiping the drops of water from his eyes.  
"You can't just…remove me from my engagement party like that, Sherlock Holmes!" Molly exclaimed, half flustered, half amused.

He laughed and moved to kiss her, undeterred by the water that dripped down their faces and mingled between their lips. Sherlock had no intention of being interrupted - ever again.

"Yes, I can, Molly Hooper," he said, watching as she burst into laughter and rushed into his arms, "Yes, I can."


	21. Time

_**A/N:** Part of a prompt series where I asked for possible gifts Molly could have given Sherlock. Hope you'll enjoy it :) xx  
_

* * *

**Time**

Christmas felt like ages ago by the time Sherlock stepped wearily back into Baker Street. The unexpected death of a certain Ms Adler had sent shockwaves through him, and his brother, which said a lot. Nothing fazed Mycroft, but clearly, plans had been shaken.

Shaking off the heaviness of the night was what Sherlock wanted right now. He trudged into his room, ignoring Mrs Hudson's concerned stare and the mess John had made in his search for contraband.

When he finally sat down at the edge of his bed, kicking his shoes off and loosening the buttons on his jacket, he spotted the lipstick-coloured box on his bedside table. It was Molly's gift to him. He let out a sigh when he realised, with an unusual twinge of guilt, that he had been a right prick to her this evening. She had been nothing but lovely to him, as she always was. And he had been nothing but awful to her, as he always was.

"Romantic attachment, eh?" he said to himself, smirking. Somehow, he found himself feeling slightly flattered.

Deftly, he pulled off the ribbon that criss-crossed itself round the crimson paper. He then peeled off a corner of the wrapper, eventually pulling a dark, velvet box out from the crinkled paper.

"What have we here?" he whispered, lifting the catch and opening the box.

* * *

He gave himself a week before deciding to show up there again. While waiting in line for what he deemed decent enough coffee to pay for, Sherlock checked that he was properly attired, and had all the right finery on. With a hot coffee in hand, and checking his wrist once more, he then made his way to the morgue downstairs at Bart's.

Normally, he swung the doors open, unaware of how dramatic his entrance always looked. Today, due to the coffee in his hand and the apologetic stance he was aiming for, there was a lot less fanfare as he nudged only one of the swinging doors forward, letting himself into the room.

"Oh, it's you," said Molly, swinging her head round the moment she heard footsteps. Molly was accustomed to the silence of the morgue and could catch every slight noise or movement.  
"Yes," he said, with a furtive smile, "Coffee?"  
"Are you…asking me to make you one or…" Molly asked. She was back to peering into the chest cavity of an old lady, and so had not seen the steaming latte in his hands.  
"Uh, no, I…" Sherlock replied, perplexed by her response, "I've brought you coffee."

Molly looked up from the ribcage in front of her and put her clipboard and pen down. She then turned around and was stunned to see that he had indeed brought coffee, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed the coffee was for her.

"Are you sure?" she asked, eyeing him warily.  
"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, frowning.  
"You're Sherlock Holmes…" she said, moving forward to take the coffee from him, "You don't do coffee."

When Sherlock saw Molly reach out for the decoratively insulated paper cup, he made sure to stretch his hand forward, offering it politely to her. She smiled at his polite gesture, but as her fingers made contact with the cup's warm surface, she gasped slightly and retracted her fingers.

"Oh, it looks so lovely on you," she whispered, unable to stop from smiling.

Peeking out from beneath the cuff of his shirt was the dark leather strap of the beautiful watch that had been Molly's gift to him at Christmas. Initially, she had picked that choice of leather as a cheeky way of remembering the riding crop he often used at the morgue. What she did not expect was how beautifully it set against his skin and how the intricate metalwork of the watch's face was just the right proportion for his wrists. It was the perfect complement to his outfit, and more importantly, it perfectly complemented the man himself.

"Of course, it would." he answered with a cocky grin, handing the coffee to her. "I have most excellent muscle tone in my forearms and rather shapely wrists."

Molly burst into laughter, and quite nearly dropped the coffee. Sherlock had to reach for her wrist to steady her hand. He, too, could not resist a smile of amusement.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said quietly. Sherlock then gave her a quick peck on the cheek before releasing her wrist, and striding out of the morgue.

* * *

Molly had rushed home in a panic. The last time she had seen him was when they had all been gathered in some unknown meeting room of Mycroft's, syncing communication devices and watches and going through briefing after briefing after briefing. Now that the work was done and the plan had succeeded, or so Mycroft had told her, she could not help but feel the surging anxiety in her veins.

She tried calming down in the shower, she tried a pot of herbal tea, then some wine, then some vodka, and even contemplated a cigarette. None of these could ease the thumping of her heart as she wondered, _Did he survive the jump or not?_ Molly did not even know where he was meant to be headed after they had executed their plan. This had been top secret information that only the brothers had exchanged.

Finally, Molly gave up and decided that if she did not at least try to get to bed, she would probably never sleep. With a heavy heart, she made for her room and headed straight for her bed. She shrugged off her house robe and flung it angrily on an armchair as she flipped open the covers of her bed. When the corner of her duvet fell in a heap, exposing a section of her mattress, her eyes fell upon an awfully familiar velvet box. That was not the only thing. Molly could see that there was a piece of paper beneath it.

She fell to her knees and grabbed the box, undoing the catch and opening it. There was an instant exhale of relief when she saw the watch she had gotten for Sherlock lying snugly in its own silken bed. Remembering the note, she scrambled for the piece of paper, clumsily unfolding it with nervous fingers.

_I have to be away for a while, as you do when faking your death.  
I leave this watch in your good hands, Molly.  
I trust you will take good care of it._

"Of course I will, you _dolt_," Molly muttered, holding back tears of relief.

_This watch is most important and requires the utmost care and attention.  
You will see to that, won't you?_

"You're full of nonsense, you are, Sherlock Holmes," she said, chuckling quietly as she shook her head.

_It's a terribly precious gift.  
And from someone terribly precious to me _

"You're lying," she said in both anger and amusement.

_I expect to get it back when I return, of course._

"And when would that be, O International Man of Mystery?" she asked, scoffing.

_I do love that watch._

"You'd better!" she remarked, chuckling again.

_But not more than the one who gave it to me.  
When I come back, I shall tell her myself.  
For now, hold on to it for me, won't you, Molly?_

* * *

It never left her. She would bring it with her in her bag to work, she would fiddle with it as she watched the telly, and she would go to bed with it by her bedside.

How strange - and beautiful - then, that it was on a cold Christmas night again that Sherlock Holmes stole into Molly's bedroom, retrieving his beloved watch from her bedside table, and waking only one who had ever mattered with a kiss he had been waiting a very long time to give.


	22. Scarf

_**A/N:**__ Part of a prompt series where I asked for possible gifts Molly could have given Sherlock. Hope you'll enjoy it :) xx_

* * *

**Scarf**

"We've lost him!" John exclaimed, gasping forbreath as he looked left and right, trying to see which direction their suspect had taken.  
"John!" Sherlock called out from somewhere behind.

John turned around swiftly to find Sherlock squatting by the side of a body that lay limp on the ground. He could see the strained heaving of the dying man's chest and rushed to his side.

"Another one of his victims?" John asked, unbuttoning the man's shirt to ascertain where the bleeding was coming from.  
"No, just an unfortunate passerby who obstructed his escape," Sherlock muttered angrily.  
"There it is, the stab wound, I see it…" John said, ripping off the man's shirt as the blood slowly seeped through it.  
"He will not make it in time for the ambulance. I've sent for one of Mycroft's helicopters."  
"Good…good…" John said, grimacing from the weight of the man as he tried to shift him, "But I think….we can buy some time. Hand me your scarf."  
"What?"  
"I said, hand me your scarf. I need something for a tourniquet. I can definitely control the bleeding…"  
"No…" mumbled the detective.  
"What do you mean _no_?" John exclaimed irritably, "A man is bleeding to death, Sherlock, _give me your scarf_!"

The detective huffed to himself and began to yank off his scarf. John stared at him, puzzled, as Sherlock folded the scarf, set it aside, and then began to remove his coat. He threw his coat aside, and proceeded to remove his dress jacket, one of his Dolce &amp; Gabbana ones. He then reached into his pocket and retrieved the small pocket knife he always carried with him. With great precision, Sherlock held his dress jacket up and swiftly sliced off one of its sleeves. John's eyes were wide as saucers as he saw the dark length of the sleeve fall with a flop to the ground.

"What in _heaven's _name are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked, almost bellowing.  
"You wanted something for a tourniquet, I'm giving you something," said Sherlock.

The detective picked the long sleeve up and began slitting it lengthwise to form long strips of fabric. He then tied the strips together and passed them over to John who deftly bound up the man's side with it. The silk-lined Dolce &amp; Gabbana sleeve made a fantastically sturdy tourniquet. John fastened the final knot and patted the rather fashionable bandage to check that it was secure.

"He'll definitely make it," John said with a relieved exhale.  
"Good work," Sherlock said as he shrugged his coat back on and carefully looped the scarf back around his neck.  
"You could have just given me the scarf, Sherlock," John remarked, stretching and cricking his neck.  
"No, I couldn't." Sherlock said with a smirk, just as the whirring sounds of a helicopter slowly began to fill the air.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock's first order of business was to stop by the morgue. He burst in through the doors and found the person he was looking for hunched over as she scraped skin samples for some research she was doing.

"Molly."  
"Yes?" she asked, turning around.  
"I…" he paused to clear his throat," I've…thanked you for the Christmas scarf, have I not?"  
"Yes, you have." Molly answered, puzzled by his question.  
"It is of the most exceptional quality, and most certainly my preferred hue."  
"I'm…happy to hear that, Sherlock," Molly said with a nod, "In fact, I noticed you've been wearing it a lot. I'm glad."

She smiled at him and was just about to turn back to resume her harvesting of skin cells when he interrupted her again.

"I'm glad you've noticed," said the detective.  
"It's…not hard to miss," she said with a furtive smile, "And you're here a lot these days…"  
"I should like to inform you that I won't be wearing it anymore," he said plainly.  
"Oh?" Molly answered, a little crestfallen.  
"And I hope you won't take any offence in me doing so."  
"None in the least," Molly answered, offering a kind smile.  
"I shouldn't want to run the risk of it being damaged for a case," he continued matter-of-factly.  
"How could that happen?" she asked with a little laugh.  
"John seems to think they make the best emergency tourniquets, and as we run into a lot of emergencies, and people bleeding copiously, I should not like this scarf to be an option." he answered.

His words made Molly smirk to herself, trying desperately to bite down a growing grin. She nodded in understanding and looked right up at Sherlock.

"Don't worry about it, all right?" she asked, "I can always get you another one."

At her words, Sherlock looked at her with a sort of perplexed horror.

"I don't want another one." he blurted out.  
"It's just a scarf, Sherlock…" Molly replied, chuckling.  
"No, it isn't." he interrupted.

Without warning, Sherlock stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. Molly froze.

"It isn't just a scarf," he said quietly, his lips just below her ear. "It really, really isn't."

With that, Sherlock kissed her gently on the cheek once more, this time, allowing his mouth to linger just a few seconds longer on her skin. He then gave her a quick nod goodbye, accompanied by an awkward half-smile, before turning to walk quickly out of the morgue.


	23. The Start

_**A/N: **Feeling a lot of things today. When hurting, it is only natural to turn to a spot of Sherlolly... _

* * *

**The Start**

The room was quiet.  
The pulse was steady.  
Machines hummed.

There no longer were any sounds of crazed gunfire, staggered breathing or the terrifying gurgling sound of choking on one's own blood.

Her room was quiet.  
Her pulse was steady.  
The machines continued to hum.

Sherlock reached for her hand, leaning his forehead against it as he let out a slow exhale.

It was a sigh of gratitude.

He was grateful for the little flicker beneath her eyelids from time to time. And for the little breaths that escaped her lips.

The hand that he held he now brought to his lips, smiling against her skin from the sheer ecstasy that she was alive.

If he did not say it now, he would never get the chance. Yet, the words felt heavy, somehow. They stuck in his throat from the weight of their significance and the depth of their meaning.

The words would not come out, but he had to say _something_.

With his lips still touching the top of her pale hand, he whispered the only thing he could muster.

"Would you like to have coffee?"

The detective laughed quietly against her skin. Of all the times to say something like that.

It was a start, at least.


	24. The Last Request

_**A/N: **A songfic prompt fill for "Every Time We Say Goodbye" by Ray Charles and Betty Carter._

* * *

**The Last Request**

"You're going to regret this," said Mycroft, fiddling with the skull on the mantlepiece.  
"No. I won't." Sherlock answered swiftly. "Leave the skull alone."  
"I disagree." the elder Holmes brother remarked. "Nevertheless, I did ask for your last request. So I shall keep my word."

The restaurant had been emptied, as Sherlock had requested. Angelo himself was the one making the _penne alla puttanesca_ \- the only thing Sherlock ever ate at the restaurant if he did choose to eat. His brother's question rang in his ears as he made his way to the restaurant._ Is there one last thing I can do for you before you leave us — London, for good?_

The detective smirked to himself when he recalled how his brother had scoffed at his answer. _Just dinner. At Angelo's. By myself. I might as well get something to eat. A final meal before death row_. Indeed, there was no other way to call it. He was being sent back to Eastern Europe where he would serve, and therefore die.

The car pulled up to the vacant restaurant. To Sherlock's surprise, all the tables had little candles on them, flickering away dreamily. _Nice touch, Mycroft_, he thought to himself, amused, as he pushed open the door. Music was playing softly from a jukebox tucked in the corner of a restaurant. The detective found himself smiling. It was a nice tune — soothing and uncomplicated.

"Sit yourself wherever you like, Sherlock," said Angelo in that familiar gruff voice of his.  
"Thank you," he replied, picking a table for two right in the middle of the restaurant.

He chose that spot because it emphasised how empty the restaurant was and how he was the only one in there. Sherlock always found it easier being alone. It meant he could get things done, and no one would get in the way. More importantly, no one would get hurt.

The jukebox clicked as it switched to another song, stirring him from his thoughts. Just then, Angelo walked over with the wine he had ordered, pouring him a glass. Sherlock peered into his glass, swirling the liquid before taking a whiff, and then a sip. His food finally arrived as a plate with gleaming pasta and steaming olives appeared in front of him.

"I hope you're hungry."

That was not Angelo's voice and the detective looked up sharply.

"I was told you'd be here," said Molly, decked in a simple dark green dress, "And that you needed company."  
"I—"  
"Say no more," she said, taking her seat whilst Angelo served her her food, "I know you'd rather I wasn't here."

Not that he was obliging her, but Sherlock simply did not know what to say. Molly, who knew how to operate around Sherlock, simply began eating, not attempting to make any conversation whatsoever. When they were done, Molly took a sip of her wine and then stood up. She walked over to the jukebox, the click of her heels piercing the vacant air of the restaurant.

"Don't misunderstand," she said quietly, as she fiddled with the knobs on the jukebox, "I'm only acting on instruction."  
"My brother's?" asked Sherlock.  
"Yup." she said, pushing the button which selected the song.

The song was mellow, warm and quiet. The emptiness of the restaurant meant the song was particularly clear, as though the singers were right there in the room with them. Molly stepped towards Sherlock. She seemed a little nervous, but managed a smile. Sherlock only registered one emotion - confusion.

"Right. It's time to dance." Molly said, gingerly extending her hand forward to Sherlock.

To her surprise, he took her hand without any hesitation. He got up to his feet, automatically wrapped an arm around her waist and positioned her other hand properly in his. Together, the pair of them danced, slowly and steadily. When the song came to its end, Sherlock lifted Molly's hand and twirled her gently around, igniting gentle smiles on both their faces.

The pair of them parted, but he made sure to keep both her hands in his.

"You gonna be okay?" Molly asked quietly.  
"I'll be fine. I always am." he said with his signature smirk.  
"Good. Then my job here is done." she said.

She reached up to kiss him gently on the cheek. Molly paused and took a moment to look right into his eyes. They were so beautiful, and she was told she was never going to see them again. Sighing quietly, she kissed him once more on the other cheek. She did not quite know what to do now, and so occupied herself with straightening the lapels of his jacket.

"Molly," he said, placing his hands gently over her busy ones.  
"Hmm?" she replied, her eyes looking straight at his collar, not wanting to lift her gaze.  
"You gonna be okay?" he whispered, lowering his head as he tried to catch her gaze.  
"No," she said, with a furtive smile, "But I'll do my best."  
"Maybe give Tom another go?" he said with a little smirk. "He's…not too bad, you know."  
"Of all people to tell me that," she remarked, amused.

He smiled at her response and drew her carefully to himself, delicately wrapping his arms around her. He tilted his head, so he could feel the softness of her hair against the side of his face. It was only then that Sherlock discovered the one downside to being alone - there would be none of _this_. What was worse, it was not the embrace, nor the softness of hair mattered to him. It was the fact that it was _hers_.

"I heard you're going to die," she whispered.  
"If you must know," he answered quietly, "I already have."

Sherlock pulled apart from her, bent to kiss her firmly and a little desperately on the lips, then walked out without a word. This was one goodbye he could not say. Perhaps if he did not say it, it might not have to be goodbye after all.

That was his hope anyway.


	25. Go

**_A/N:_ **_A songfic prompt fill for "Let Her Go" by Passenger. :) x_

* * *

**Go**

Sherlock was seated in Mycroft's leather armchair at one of his secret offices hidden in the belly of London. The detective let his legs dangle from one end of the armrest while he leaned back against the other. Staring up at the ceiling, he tossed an apple into the air, caught it, then tossed it again.

"You won't regret this?" asked his older brother, not looking up from his documents.  
"No. Why would I? I'm going to die in six months." Sherlock replied, continuing to spin the apple into the air.  
"Nevertheless—"  
"Since when did you you get so sentimental?" asked Sherlock, sitting up abruptly, swinging his legs back onto the floor.  
"I'm merely being practical." said Mycroft, smirking.  
"How is this being practical?" Sherlock scoffed, throwing the apple at his brother.

Mycroft caught the apple with one hand then placed it neatly on his desk. He sighed and leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

"Don't pretend she isn't important to you, Sherlock," Mycroft remarked, eyeing his brother seriously.  
"I've let her go. And that's that." replied the detective stoically.

Sherlock picked his coat off the coat rack and was about to leave the room when his brother spoke again.

"Would you like me to tell her that?" asked Mycroft coolly.

There was a pause and Sherlock's lip twitched slightly at his brother's words. He sucked in a sharp breath and reached for the doorknob.

"Yes. If you could." uttered the detective, before exiting his brother's office and slamming the door behind him.

It was his last morning in London and Sherlock was up early. He took his last coffee at Baker Street and stole one last crumpet from Mrs Hudson's cake tin, leaving her a little note to say thank you and goodbye. The Watsons would have received their letter by now. It was better this way. Farewells were always strained and awkward.

Soon, he was out of the place, not turning to look back once. He got into the car his brother had readied for him and headed to the private airfield where he was to depart.

Mycroft had already arrived and was standing next to his own car parked next to the private plane that was to take Sherlock away.

"Is everything ready?" asked the detective.  
"Yes." his brother answered swiftly, "Are you?"  
"I have to be, don't I?" Sherlock replied with a quick, wry smile.  
"Just one thing, Sherlock."  
"What now?" asked Sherlock impatiently. He was in no mood for Mycroft's dramatic antics.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and brought a phone out. He swiped at its screen and tapped at a few things before handing the phone to Sherlock.

"What's this?" asked Sherlock, frowning at his brother.  
"Tell Molly yourself," said Mycroft, before walking away.

The screen of the phone blinked with her name as the faint sounds of ringing reached the detective's ears. His reaction should have been to automatically end the call and to hand the phone back to his brother. Instead, he put the phone to his ear and shut his eyes. His jaw clenched without him knowing as he inhaled a sharp, frustrated breath.

"Hello?" came her voice.  
"Molly, it's me." he said.  
"Sherlock, hi."  
"So, today is the day…"  
"The day for what?"  
"That I leave London. And I want you to go live a good life—"  
"Sherlock, what are you talking about—"  
"Goodbye, Molly," he interrupted, taking a deep breath, "Go, and…be safe. Take care."

The line went dead and the detective had to take a moment to gather his wits about himself. He was going to get on that plane to get to a mission which would kill him. He had told everyone - the Watsons, Mrs Hudson and even Greg - but the one who had saved him from the very beginning was the one soul he could not tell.

_You won't regret it? _

His brother's words rang in his head. No, he would not let himself regret it. Sherlock returned the phone to his brother, gave him a stoic handshake and a nod goodbye. Steeling himself, Sherlock shrugged his coat even tighter around himself and boarded the plane.

One of the two flight attendants attending to his flight greeted him, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Where is my seat?" he asked brusquely.  
"It's through there, Mr Holmes," the attendant said, "Past the maroon curtain."  
"Thank you," muttered the detective, as he made his way forward.

He parted the curtain hastily, as though it would accelerate time. There were only four luxurious leather seats in this tiny plane and to his surprise, one was already occupied.

"Molly…" he said, his eyes wide with surprise.

The pathologist smiled and got up from her seat. She walked up to the detective, stopping just a few inches from him.

"You were just going to go…to your _death_, and not tell me?" she asked quietly.  
"Why are you here? How —"  
"Answer my question, Sherlock Holmes." she interrupted with a fierce glint in her eyes.  
"I just wanted you to live your life. Solely yours," he said, "Not one embroiled with all my shenanigans…"

His words made her laugh and he eyed her curiously.

"So, now that you know that I know, do you still want me to go…_live my life_?" Molly asked, reaching to dust off an imaginary piece of lint off his collar.  
"Yes, yes of course," he muttered, still in shock that she was here on the plane.  
"Fine," she said, taking a step back from him.

Molly walked away from the detective, but returned to where she had been sitting and settled herself comfortably. She reached down into her bag and pulled out a book and her iPod. She was just about to put the earphones in when Sherlock sat down beside her and stopped her.

"I don't understand." he whispered, his jaw was tight.

Gently, Molly removed his hand from around her wrist and leaned over to kiss him.

"You tell me to go live my life," she said, leaning back against her seat, "That's exactly what I'll do."  
"No, you're not coming with me—"  
"Try and stop me, Sherlock Holmes," she said, turning to stare at him with determined, bright eyes.  
"I'm going to die, Molly," he said, "I really am this time,"  
"Your brother isn't always right, you know," she said with a chuckle.  
"Well, I'm afraid he is and you will just be wasting your ti—"  
"Sherlock Holmes," she exclaimed, cutting him off.

He stared at her, his pale eyes shining but perplexed.

"You've just told me to go live my life." she said, taking his hand. "So stop telling me what to do."

The detective looked down at the firm hand that held his, then looked up at her. Molly seemed so unfazed, gazing calmly back at him.

"Even if it's for six months," she whispered, wrapping her fingers tightly around his hand, "I will not let you die alone, Sherlock."  
"Maybe I won't have to," he said, his former spark returning to his eyes.  
"That's the spirit," she said, chuckling as _he_ leaned in to kiss her.

When their faces parted, he leaned forward and popped another quick kiss on her forehead.

"So, shall we go?" he asked, smiling at her.  
"What are we waiting for?" Molly answered, smiling confidently in return.


	26. Secrets

_**A/N:** Based on a one-word prompt: "Secrets" xx_

* * *

**Secrets**

Sherlock wondered what the difference was this time. Here he was, _not_ comatose despite having downed shot after shot of some kind of Serbian spirit. _Rakija_, it was called. _December is unbearable without this,_ his new Serbian 'friends' had told him as they continued to pour the rich, sweet brandy into everybody's glasses. Perhaps it was because the weather was bitingly cold, or that it was actually rather delicious. Whatever it was, Sherlock's body seemed to be taking it rather well - so far, at least.

The detective soon realised that the trouble with drinking, especially with company, was that it soon spiralled into very unbridled conversation. As it stood, regular conversation was painful enough. Such boorish and unnecessarily 'open' conversation was worse. No amount of _Rakija_ was going to make it less intolerable. Besides, it did not seem like they were going to say anything worthwhile, so there really was no point in staying.

Taking what was to be his last drink for the night, the detective wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood to leave. He was hoping to turn around and slip away when a firm hand grabbed his arm, forcing him back onto his stool.

"Where are you going, English man?" asked one of the men as the rest of them laughed.  
"It's late," said Sherlock, shrugging the man's hand off him. "I'm going back."  
"It is not late," said another, "You stay, you drink and you talk with us."  
"No, thank you."  
"We are discussing _secrets_…" said the first man, slapping Sherlock hard on the back.

This changed the tune of things. Perhaps it was worth staying after all.

"Secrets?" asked Sherlock, eyeing the man with interest. "I am happy to discuss that."  
"Oh, we have many here, don't we, brothers?" exclaimed the man, only to be followed by loud hoots and cheers and the sound of glasses clinking.

It had not turned out the way Sherlock was hoping, as his initial hunch proved right. 'Secrets' had been exchanged for sure, just not the sort that would have helped him in his pursuit of Moriarty's network. They had instead discussed their wives, lovers, affairs, conquests… All salacious recollections that Sherlock would much rather _not_ have heard. What was worse, they soon turned the attention to him.

"So, English man, do you have a girl back home?" asked one of the soldiers, "Or have you found yourself a lover here?"

The question caused them all to burst into loud guffaws, though the detective failed to see the humour in such a question.

"Of course, I do," he answered, smiling in faux exuberance.  
"Well, tell us about her!" asked another soldier.  
"She's um…she's got short blonde hair, up to about here," he said, gesturing to the bottom of his earlobes, "Works in a…bank, she loves tennis and um…beer…"  
"Beer!" the men cheered in unison, "Now that's a good lover!"  
"Yes, she, uh, is…" he said, hiding his fake laugh as he sipped from his newly refilled glass.

The drunken revelry continued as Sherlock was made to offer new lies about his 'girl back home'. Thankfully, they had reached a new point in their inebriation that allowed the detective to successfully slip away this time.

"That was an evening well-wasted," he muttered to himself as he jiggled the key into the rickety door of his tiny house. He strode in, shutting the door carefully behind him and not bothering to turn any of the lights on. The detective made his way to what looked like a store room and locked himself in it. He reached behind a dusty shelf and fumbled around, eventually finding the tiny lever he was looking for. When that had been pulled, the entire wall of the store room shifted, creating a little doorway into a lit corridor. The detective let himself in, then shut the wall that had been his secret doorway.

It was so much warmer in here, and it was safe to have the light on too. Sherlock walked along the corridor that sloped down as it took him underground. A few doors started to emerge and when Sherlock found the one he wanted, he smiled to himself as he punched in the security code by the door and let himself in.

"Oh, you're still up…" he said, trying his best to unwind the scarf from around his neck.  
"Mycroft's sent me a lot of _homework_…" came the voice of Molly Hooper, who was curled up on a tiny sofa with an open dossier of corpse photos on her lap.

The detective smirked and walked over to her. He squeezed himself on the edge of the sofa, removed the paper file and its gruesome contents from her knees and bent to kiss her.

"_What_ have you been drinking?" she asked, chuckling as she pushed him away gently, "It tastes very sweet…and _strong_."  
"_Rakija_," answered the detective, making sure he pronounced it properly.  
"I'm glad you made it out alive," she said with a smirk.  
"And I'm just glad _you_ are here…" he mumbled, burying his head into her neck.  
"What's gotten into you?" she asked, kissing his hair.

Sherlock sat up and looked right at her, incredibly grateful for the fact that she was physically before him. She was in so much danger here, and yet, she had elected to follow him, to assist him in his mission. Mycroft had disagreed too, of course, fearing for her safety, but nobody said no to Molly Hooper anymore, not after everything she had done for the Holmes brothers.

"I need my brain cleansed…" he muttered, leaning in again into her.  
"Get up, you oaf…" she chuckled, as he resisted her attempts at prying him away.  
"I didn't know there were so many ways to unhook bras…or to shag people…"  
"Welcome to the real world, Sherlock," Molly remarked, amused.  
"Oh and just so you know… I've been shagging a blonde woman in London…"  
"What?" Molly asked, finally managing to manoeuvre him into an upright position.  
"Sorry…I mean…" he paused to rub his temples, "I had to lie I was shagging a girl in London…"  
"Ah, I see." she said, taking over and gently massaging his temples.  
"Well, I can't tell them I'm shagging you, can I…" he murmured sleepily.

Molly laughed and kissed him on the temple as she continued to soothe the migraine that she knew would plague him for a while.

"I have to keep you a secret…" he continued as he struggled to keep his heavy eyelids from falling.  
"And I appreciate that," she said, letting his head fall onto her lap.  
"If they find out about you…you could get hurt…" he said drowsily, "I don't want that."  
"No, we don't want that." she repeated softly, gently pushing his unruly curls from his eyes.  
"You're my favourite secret, Molly Hooper…" he murmured, "My favourite…"

Molly finally felt the full weight of him on her lap as he dropped off to sleep at last. She smiled gently to herself, her hands still gently massaging his temples.

"And you're my favourite too, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered, bending to kiss him softly on the cheek.


	27. Sleepless

_**A/N: **Based on a one-word prompt: "Sleepless" xx_

**Rated: T** **for violent imagery**_  
_

* * *

**Sleepless**

It had been about two weeks since Sherlock's capture, and his captors had developed a special way to hurt the detective. He would first be strung up by his wrists alone. Once he was suspended uncomfortably, stripped of his clothes of course, they would hit him. The violence executed was not crude or haphazard. Rather, it was meticulously calculated, designed to inflict only a specific sort of pain. Every strike to his skin was to ensure it split. Sometimes, the blood trickled slowly down, sometimes it would burst out angrily. The pain was excruciating, so much so that the detective no longer screamed and could hardly breathe after each session.

That was not the end though. They wanted to be sure that even in his cell, in his supposed moments of 'reprieve' between beatings, he would also suffer. They wanted him sleepless, aching, bleeding, wincing, which was why, after every session, Sherlock was sent off to get 'stitched up'. He would be mercilessly attended to, having his wounds sewn up without any proper anaesthesia. The pain then was the worst. Only then would he scream whilst the 'doctors' laughed. After the supposed medical attention, he would be thrown back into his cell, only to be brought out the next day for his wounds to be re-opened from new beatings.

Another round of beatings had just finished and Sherlock had been untied and flung onto a stretcher where he was to be bound again. His captors wheeled him to the room where he was to have his wounds treated, in a manner of speaking. Once he was in, they left him with whoever the doctors were in charge, knowing he was too weak to do anything. They barely bothered to shut the doors now, leaving it ajar as they left the prison to return to their drink and gambling.

Sherlock lay on his stretcher, choking from the pain and blinking away the blood that had dripped into his eyes. He willed himself to separate from the pain, to detach his mind from his nerves, his soul from his body. It was impossible as the pain shot through him tirelessly, through every part of his body.

Just then, footsteps emerged and he heard the voices of two people. They spoke in Serbian of course, their voices muffled behind their medical masks. The doctor did not seem to talk much, but from what rusty Serbian Sherlock had mustered, he could tell that the doctor had just sent the assistant away for some equipment they had forgotten.

The detective shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, preparing for the worst. To his surprise, he heard the door clang shut and the sound of it locking from inside. The assistant had not returned, which was perplexing. When he opened his eyes, the dreaded figure decked out in full medical scrubs from head to toe approached him. He flinched when the gloved hands came into view, hovering menacingly above him. As they got nearer, he began to buck automatically against the restraints that bound him to the stretcher.

In his struggle, he did not notice that the gloves had been peeled off and that two bare hands descended upon the sides of his bruised face. He continued to fight, shutting his eyes again, whilst beginning to hyperventilate. Again, he did not notice that the medical mask and scrub cap of the doctor had been removed. Only when he felt the unusual sensation of a cheekbone against his own and heard the soft, familiar voice of someone he had never expected to hear did he stop struggling.

The voice was trembling slightly, as though holding back sobs. Quietly and earnestly, the voice whispered into his ear.

"You're safe now…calm down…you're safe now. I'm going to get you out."

His eyes went wide with disbelief. Slowly, he turned his head to see if it really was who he had heard it to be. She lifted her head, and smiled at him, but with eyes glistening from angry tears. She swallowed hard as she returned the mask to her face and put her hair up in the scrub cap again. Coolly and calmly, she unlocked the door and simply wheeled him out. Sherlock stared at her in disbelief at her incredible confidence. Gradually, she picked up her speed as she guided the stretcher out through the dark but surprisingly empty corridors of the prison that he had called home for two weeks. Sherlock was wise enough to stay silent, but question after question flooded his brain.

His heart almost stopped when he saw uniformed men and women appear suddenly at one of the gates. However, when he saw Molly nod to them and let them take over the stretcher, he exhaled in relief. Together, the whole group of them began to run - the uniformed guards beside him, the ones pushing his stretcher and of course, the one who had got him out, Molly Hooper.

A vehicle suddenly swerved into view as the doors of what looked like a black ambulance swung open. Molly leapt in first, followed by a few of the guards who then lifted his stretcher and got him safely into the vehicle. Sherlock heard the doors slam shut as the engine revved and sped them away, far away from the hell hole he had only just escaped.

The restraints were finally removed from him and the medical personnel who had been waiting inside began to work. However, Sherlock could not help but flinch when he saw their syringes and scalpels, and sat up, horrified. It was then that Molly took over, placing a firm but gentle hand on his chest to coax him back down. Only Molly could fix the IV needles into him without him reacting. Eventually, she was the only who could administer the local anaesthesia, and the only one who could stitch up his wounds.

She did the best with what she could in the speeding vehicle and managed to stabilise him. His heart rate was no longer erratic and his blood pressure had normalised. With that done, Molly crouched beside him, doing her best to clean off the dried blood and grime that clung to his face and hair. Sherlock could only smile weakly and gratefully at her. He extended a tired, shaking hand towards her and she took it without hesitation.

"You'll be okay," she whispered to him, kissing him softly on the forehead.  
"I didn't know you spoke Serbian," he said, with an amused but cracked voice. The IV was working, obviously.  
"I didn't…" she answered, grateful to see him slowly returning to normal. "But your brother made me learn it."  
"How long did it take you? It wasn't too bad, you know," he said.  
"From the moment you left London," she replied, "In fact, I had my first lesson that very night on the day you _fell_."  
"That's a lot of dedication, Molly Hooper," remarked Sherlock, hissing from pain as he accidentally shifted his IV tube.  
"It was nothing," she said, smiling.

Sherlock took a moment to take a good look at Molly. Remembering that her hand was still in his, Sherlock brought it up to his lips and kissed it, shutting his eyes as he did so. He was so tired, and his body, so wrecked. He continued to keep her hand against his face, not minding the way it grazed against his wounds. Her hand was soft, cool but most of all, kind and comforting.

"Thank you," he murmured against the back of her hand as a warm tear of relief slid from his eyes onto her skin.  
"Oh, Sherlock…" she whispered, bending to gently touch her forehead to his, carefully avoiding his wounds.  
"How did you even get in? You could have been killed…" he said, almost ranting. The detective frowned at the thought of her having waded into his dangerous world. "There are so many questions I want to ask…"

He paused to yawn, flinching again because it hurt his jaw that had probably been dislocated several times in the past two weeks.

"Sleep. We can talk tomorrow." said Molly, gently pushing the hair away from his eyes.  
"Tomorrow. Yes…tomorrow." he murmured. Molly could see his heavy eyelids slowly shutting.  
"Get some rest," she whispered, running her thumb over his knuckles.  
"Yes…I will," he answered quietly, his eyes fully closed now.

Molly was relieved to feel his breaths ease into a slower, far more relaxed rhythm. The monitor that followed his heart rate beeped accordingly.

"Stay?" he mumbled dreamily against her skin.

Molly smiled, making sure their hands stayed firmly intertwined.

"Of course, Sherlock." she answered, gazing gently at his sleeping figure, "Always."


	28. Fights

_**A/N:** A songfic prompt fill for "Elastic Heart" by Sia. xx  
_

* * *

**Fights**

Desperate times called for desperate measures, which was why Molly Hooper found herself at the door of Baker Street, her finger poised uncertainly above the doorbell. She never rang it. It was Mrs Hudson who had let Molly in. She had been on her way out to Bingo when she quite literally collided into the pathologist.

"Is he in? I texted but…he didn't reply. As usual," she asked the landlady.  
"He's been in all week, love," Mrs Hudson answered. "No gunshots this time though, thankfully."

The landlady patted Molly on the arm before setting off, leaving Molly to head up the narrow flight of stairs alone. At the top, she realised the door was open. With ears as sharp as his, Sherlock had probably heard their little conversation downstairs.

"I got your text," he said, surprising her.

Sherlock was seated at his desk, scrolling at something on his laptop and did not bother to look up at her.

"Right, so…"  
"So…" he said, inhaling sharply as he shut his laptop, "I'll take the case."  
"This isn't a _case_, Sherlock," said Molly with a small laugh.  
"What else is this then?" he asked, turning at last to look at her.  
"Fine. It's a case." she said, moving to sit in the armchair where 'they all sat'.

Sherlock got up from behind his desk and moved to sit across from Molly. He leaned back and pressed his palms together in front of him. His eyes that rested on her were expressionless.

"So, tell me. When was the last time you saw it?"

* * *

Their argument had been at her flat, where he would stay from time to time. Molly could not remember what they had been fighting about, despite Sherlock pressing her for details. She assured the detective it had not been about about him, and that she and Tom were probably squabbling about some trivial matter, as had been the case for weeks.

"And then what happened?" the detective asked, trying his best to feign disinterest.  
"I don't know — I shouted a bit, paced the room, I took it off—" she said, sighing, "My mind goes blank right after that."  
"Does _he_ remember what you did with it?" asked the detective.  
"I've not spoken much to him since, but I doubt he'd remember." said Molly, burying her head in her hands. "I just feel bad that…I've lost it, you know?"  
"No, I don't know." Sherlock answered, getting up suddenly. "Nevertheless, we'd better get a move on."  
"Where to?" asked Molly, her head still in her hands.  
"Your flat." he answered.

* * *

At Molly's flat, the detective scanned the room and tried not to notice what remaining traces there were of Tom's presence in her home. He cleared his throat and marched in, taking long strides, with his hands firmly clasped behind his back.

"If we're going to find this…_ring_, I need you to re-enact everything that happened."  
"O-kay," Molly said, obligingly. Desperate times called for such obliging behaviour.  
"I'll be Tom," he said, "Where should I stand?"

Molly led Sherlock to the doorway of her bedroom, positioning him exactly as she remembered.

"What are we fighting about?" the detective said, "We need to set the scene—"  
"I told you, I can't remember…" Molly interrupted.  
"Fine, we'll make something up," Sherlock said.  
"What do you mean make it u—"

Sherlock stopped her and took her firmly by the shoulders.

"So, you still love him then?" he asked sternly.  
"I'm sorry? Who?"  
"_Him_…You still love him." he asked, staring hard at her. Sherlock was no longer expressionless and his eyes shone with fury that Molly had not seen before.  
"I don't love Tom, Sherlock," she found herself saying, "I mean, look, we're not even engaged anymo—"  
"Then why —" Sherlock could not continue, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and looked away.

Suddenly, he moved past her and sat himself on the edge of her bed. He looked up and out of the doorway that led into the living room. An idea struck him and he reached for his wallet to search for a coin. When he found one, he flung it as hard as he could out of the doorway and observed the distance the penny took before landing on the ground. He squinted to see where it had fallen and smirked to himself. Sherlock stood up and walked over to the fallen penny and noticed a rug just beside it. Crouching down, he peered under the rug, which was beneath the small side table in the living room, and rummaged under it.

"Ah." he said, with a victory smile.

He got up and held the tiny hoop of metal and gems in his palm.

"Here you go. You'd thrown it. And it landed there." he said, tilting his head in the direction of the rug.  
"Thank you," said Molly, exhaling with relief as she took the ring from him.  
"Now that you've found it perhaps you can consider marrying him again," he said with a smirk.

Their 'case' had been solved, so Sherlock gave her a little nod and turned to exit the flat. Molly reached out just then, stopping him by grabbing him by the elbow.

"I don't love Tom, Sherlock," she repeated, "I don't think I ever have, to be honest."  
"If you don't, then why…" he tried to continue the question from earlier, but found that he still could not.  
"Why won't I love _you_ instead?" she asked for him, moving to stand in front of the detective.  
"I didn't say that." he muttered.

Molly exhaled sharply, exasperated. She hastily pocketed the ring and in one fluid move stepped forward towards Sherlock and kissed him. Her arms were wrapped firmly around him when just then, to her surprise, he began to kiss her back, reciprocating the embrace. They stumbled to her bed, in a flurry of desperate arms and frantic kisses.

It was a strange thing for them both, as they struggled with what was happening. Sometimes, Molly would panic in realisation and pull away from him, but he would only follow her, taking her back with him. Other times, Sherlock would be the one to push her away, realising the foolish indulgence he was allowing himself, but she would draw him back with heated kisses. The constant push and pull gradually stopped as both hearts, and therefore bodies, relented, melting into unison.

Nobody knew what the time was when they woke. Molly sat up first, her hair falling all around her naked torso. She turned to Sherlock who looked up at her, his eyes soft and bright. He smiled gently as he slipped a bare arm around her waist and drew her back to bed.

"Are we in trouble?" he asked, unable to resist kissing her collarbone.  
"I don't know," Molly chuckled softly, "Maybe we should ask your brother."  
"He might get a stroke," smirked the detective.  
"I shouldn't like that," said Molly, "He's a good man, your brother."  
"And me?" he asked, looking up at her.

Molly smiled and ran her thumb delicately over his mouth, chuckling as he attempted to kiss it. She removed her hand and replaced it with her own mouth, kissing him slowly and softly.

"I lied," she whispered, smiling against his lips.  
"About?" asked Sherlock, perplexed.  
"About not knowing what we were fighting about…" she said.  
"And?"  
"I do remember," she continued, "And it was about you."  
"And what about me?" he asked quietly.  
"It was about the fact that you and I are in love," she replied, "He said he could see it in my eyes."  
"Did he see it in my eyes?"  
"Of course," she said, smiling, "He saw it there first."

It was Sherlock's turn to lean in to kiss her, moving from her lips down her jaw line before resting his head in the crook of her neck.

"Good," was all the detective said, "I'm glad he saw it."

The pair of them laughed quietly at the journey their affections had taken. Affections that had been buried, lost, and now found. Molly was just about to ask if Sherlock wanted any dinner when suddenly, something occurred to her and the smile fell from her face.

"Oh no," she muttered, dropping her head in frustration against his chest.  
"What's the matter?" he asked.  
"I lost the ring again… when we—" she sighed, annoyed.

The detective chuckled and wrapped his arms tightly around her. He kissed the top of her head and sighed in quiet satisfaction.

"Good," he said, smirking against her hair. "Good."


	29. Somewhere

_**A/N:** A songfic prompt fill for "England" by The National. xx_

* * *

**Somewhere**

Christmas was always a miserable time for the detective, but he did not recall it being _this_ miserable. His travels throughout Eastern Europe had landed him back in Serbia, where the December snow and its cutting winds wreaked havoc on his body.

Sherlock had just finished meeting his Serbian counterparts and was on his way back. His home was a tiny room in an abandoned army barracks. He never stayed at any of Mycroft's secret bases, and instead, had supplies sent to him discreetly. This was to ensure no one got wind of the fact that Sherlock was serving with MI6. On this particularly cold evening, however, he was sorely tempted to give his brother a call. He wanted to get out of this bitter winter, if only for a little bit.

His pride got the better of him and he shrugged the idea away. Sherlock switched on the solitary bulb that hung from the ceiling and realised he had been delivered something. It was a single brown envelope but with a seal he recognised as exclusively his brother's. What was it now? A complication? New evidence? A plane ticket home? Sherlock smirked to himself at that last thought. A plane ticket home would be most welcome right now.

With a sigh, he slit open the envelope only to find a simple handwritten note from his brother.

_Meet at the usual pick-up point.  
2330hrs.  
You are required at base._

This was rather perfect, thought the detective. He was going to get some warmth, a proper hot shower, and all without having had to ask his brother. Whatever it was that his brother needed him for did not matter. He was going to get a break from all this bloody snow. Sherlock checked his watch and saw there was still some time left to go. He decided to rest, as there was no point eating or having a bath here if he was headed to base.

At the required time, Sherlock headed to their spot by a quiet dock area and was whisked away to one of Mycroft's secret intelligence units. When the doors opened to a crisp, dry corridor, hidden deep in the Serbian underground, the detective almost fainted with delight. It was nice to feel his fingertips once more. Removing his gloves and rubbing his hands gratefully, he followed the guards that had picked him up to where his brother was waiting.

"Evening, Sherlock," said Mycroft, when he saw his brother being ushered in.  
"It's good to be here," Sherlock responded, which was the closest to a _thank you_Mycroft was going to get.  
"I won't be long," Mycroft began, pushing a small laptop to Sherlock, "Here."  
"What's this?" the detective asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"I'm going to leave the room." Mycroft said, getting up, "And when I've done so, you are to open the laptop, and click on the icon right in the centre of the screen."  
"And? What's supposed to happen after that?"  
"You'll know what to do," Mycroft answered with a smile, "Have a good evening."

Perplexed, Sherlock eyed his brother as he walked out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his brother's desk.

"What have we here…" he whispered.

Sherlock followed his brother's very simple instructions. He opened the laptop and saw nothing on the black screen save for a single icon in the shape of a little bell. Gently, he drew his finger across the touchpad of the laptop and moved the cursor to rest on top of the little white bell. The detective was terribly curious, and also a little nervous, if he was being honest.

"Right. Here we go," he said, taking in a deep breath.

He was surprised to hear a ring tone the moment he clicked it. It rang only four times before he heard a click, and suddenly, the screen was no longer black.

"Hello," said the face that appeared on the screen in front of him.

It was Molly. Molly Hooper. Sherlock's eyes went wide, and for a moment, had no words to say.

"Is this a technical glitch or are you just…not talking?" she asked, squinting as she leaned forward to peer a little closer at her own screen.  
"No, no, no glitch. He—Hello, Molly," he said, smiling awkwardly.  
"How are you?" she asked, "Your brother's told me it's cold where you are."  
"It is indeed," said the detective nodding, "And how are you?"  
"I'm fine. The same." she replied, with a smile.

The detective did a quick calculation in his head. When was the last time he had seen Molly? When was the last time that they had spoken? Yes, he remembered now. It was just a few months ago, right after his 'fall'. She had been the one to revive him and to check that he was physically able continue in his pursuit of Moriarty. He never got to thank her, among other things.

"You must be somewhere in….London?" he asked suddenly.  
"Well, obviously…" she said with a laugh, "Have your powers of deduction gone numb from the cold?"

He smiled. He missed her laugh, and her odd sense of humour.

"Why don't you come visit?" he joked, "Plenty of bodies out here. Plus it's a cold chamber all on its own. No need for energy-wasting air-conditioners…"  
"Sounds marvellous," she joked in return, "That's next Christmas' holiday settled."

The pair laughed and then the room grew quiet again.

"Why are we here…chatting?" he asked, "Who arranged for this?"  
"The omniscience that is your brother," said Molly, "He was worried."  
"Worried?"  
"That the cold would get to you," she said, "And the loneliness."  
"I'm not lonely," scoffed the detective.  
"That's what I told him," Molly said with a shrug, "But he felt otherwise."

The detective paused, not sure of what to say. He looked at Molly sitting right before him, despite being miles away. He was not lonely, but he did miss her. She was the one who had saved him, who had literally brought him out of death. Whether it was from grace or a great height that he had fallen, she had stood by him unwaveringly. The detective exhaled in frustration as he fell back against his seat. His brother was right. Maddeningly so.

"Well, you know my brother…" he said, with a soft smile.  
"What about him?" she asked.  
"He's always right," said Sherlock, "But not quite, this time."  
"Care to explain?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

This would have been easier to explain had she actually been in the room. Sherlock very much wanted to take her hand, or to kiss her lovely cheek again. The last time he had done that had been Christmas too, except under much more unpleasant circumstances. This time, it would not have been done as an apology.

"I'm not lonely, Molly," he said. "But I do feel your absence."

There was something awfully insincere about talking about such things across a computer, but he had no other way.

"And it's a terrible thing to feel," he continued, "About as bad as this freezing winter."

Molly smiled, and wished she could reach over and take his hand, but they both knew she could not.

"Well, Sherlock Holmes, if you must know," she said, "I feel the same way too."

—

They had talked for hours but eventually had to say goodbye. Promises had been exchanged, just as sentiments had been conveyed, albeit less overtly. He had promised to stay safe, and she had promised to wait for him back home. Needless to say, she had wished him a happy Christmas despite the odds and he had wished her the same in return. _Have a happier one for me in London_, he had told her. She nodded and smiled, joking that she was going to seriously consider 'visiting nature's own morgue' as her holiday plan for next Christmas.

The detective left the room, feeling warmer than he had been in months. The smile she had left on his face could not be wiped off. It did not matter that she had been a visual and audio signal beamed from somewhere else into his computer. He was glad to have simply spent that time with her, however odd the medium might have been.

Before Sherlock headed for his personal chambers, he stopped by his brother's office, knocking on the doorframe, for the door had been left ajar.

"How did it go?" asked Mycroft, lifting his gaze from a report he had been perusing.  
"Well." said the detective, "Very well."  
"Good. You'd better get some rest now." Mycroft remarked, returning to his document.  
"Why did you do it?" asked Sherlock, eyeing his brother curiously.

Mycroft looked up again and raised an eyebrow.

"Do what?" he asked.  
"This… Letting me to talk to Molly."  
"Because I know you care for her," Mycroft said plainly.  
"I thought you said caring was a disadvantage," remarked the detective, smirking.

Mycroft smiled and looked away thoughtfully.

"It is…" said Mycroft, "But Molly has proven the exception."  
"I cannot disagree…" the detective replied with a small smile.  
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock,"

The detective acknowledged his brother with a nod and turned to leave. He had barely taken a few steps out of the office when he stopped, and turned back.

"Mycroft?" said Sherlock.  
"Hmm?" his brother answered, not looking up.  
"How long will I have to be here?" he asked.

Mycroft lifted his head up slowly and smiled knowingly at his brother.

"Why do you ask?" he said, "Thinking of going somewhere?"

The detective laughed quietly and looked back at his brother.

"Yes," he answered with a smile, "London, perhaps."


	30. Grasp

_**A/N: **A songfic prompt fill for: "Yours To Hold" by Skillet. x_

* * *

**Grasp**

It was supposed to have been a simple night out. Molly, her good friend Meena, and a few other colleagues had decided to go out for drinks to celebrate the submission of a rather tedious quarterly report to their supervisor at the hospital. Molly did not know how it happened, but she had ended up at the side of the pub with a most intoxicated Meena hurling everything short of her kidneys into a ditch. Where her other friends had gone, she had not a clue. Some friends they were.

Between rubbing Meena's back and offering her what was soon to be the last of her tissues, Molly would check her phone, desperate to see if Mary had replied. She had tried to call Mary for help but to no avail, and so ended up sending her multiple mayday texts. Sighing as she pulled out the remaining piece, the last thing Molly had expected was to find Sherlock Holmes standing behind her shoulder.

"I heard none of the cabs would take you," he said, offering her a fresh pack of tissues from his inner coat pocket.  
"Oh God, thank you…" said Molly, reaching gratefully for the packet as she began hastily dabbing at Meena's perspiring forehead.

To Molly's surprise, Sherlock placed a hand on her shoulder and gently moved her away from her friend who was still crouched by the ditch.

"Tissues, please," he asked, extending his hand to Molly. Molly grabbed a few pieces and handed them to the detective who continued what Molly had begun. He patiently wiped Meena's brow and even the spit that dripped down her chin. While rubbing her back, he beckoned for Molly to help tie her hair up. By the time Molly had managed to get Meena's hair up in a haphazard bun, Sherlock began to help Meena on to her feet.

"I believe her retching has stopped," he said, helping Molly's inebriated friend stumble out to the main road.  
"I certainly hope so," Molly said, catching her breath and wiping her own sweat off her brow.  
"I'd already got us a cab," he said, gesturing with his chin to the cab parked a few metres away from them.

With Sherlock's help, Molly had managed to get Meena back to her flat. Luckily for Molly, Meena's sister was back in town and staying with her. She swiftly took over and apologised profusely for the state Meena was in. Molly smiled and said it did not matter, and told her to take care. The detective and the pathologist, both exhausted and smelling of perspiration and sick, then headed gratefully back to the cab.

For a long while, the pair of them sat in silence. All that could be heard was soft music from the cabby's radio and the hum of the engine.

"Mary called you, didn't she?" Molly asked, glancing at him.

He smirked and nodded.

"Yu-p."

Clearing his throat, he chose not to return her glance. Instead, he titled his head, angling his gaze towards the window and out of the cab.

"And you just…dropped everything?"

Molly regretted initiating conversation so late into their taxi ride. Before she could get an answer, the cab stopped.

"We're here," he said, getting out of the cab.

Sighing to herself, Molly stepped out, grateful to be getting some fresh air again. Sherlock was standing by her door, holding it open for her. When she was out, he stepped back inside and her heart could not help but sink a little bit. She had just turned away from the cab and began walking up when she heard the sound of the cab speeding off. She shook her head and smiled to herself.

What was she expecting?

She had not noticed, and she never usually did, that she had begun playing with the ring on her finger. It amused her how she would sometimes forget it was even there, and then other times feel its presence far too strongly. Tonight, it was a little bit of both. She had forgotten it was there, but only because she had momentarily forgotten what it was supposed to mean to her.

"Bit rude walking away like that, isn't it?" came the voice of Sherlock Holmes, whose strides finally caught up with hers.  
"Oh, sorry I—" she stopped in her tracks and turned to him, "Sorry, I'd thought you'd gone…"  
"I was paying the cabby," he said with a quick smile as he patted his coat pocket.  
"Right, sorry…" she said with a small laugh.  
"Not a problem," he answered, smiling again.

Together, and without a word, they slowly walked the length of the path that led to the foot of her building. There was a front door that led to the stairs to her flat. Sherlock opened it, and Molly walked right through, thanking him with a quiet smile. Silently, they took the two flights of stairs that led to Molly's flat. She searched for her keys and opened her door successfully. After wiping her feet on the faded "Welcome" mat, she stepped into her tiny flat and had expected to hear footsteps follow behind. Instead, she found herself standing on the inside of her flat, with Sherlock on the other side and the doorway between them.

"Can I at least offer you a cup of tea or coffee or…" she asked, the keys jingling in her hand.

The detective smiled and kept his hands firmly in the two side pockets of his coat.

"I just wanted to see you home. Safe. That's all." he answered quietly. "That was what Mary wanted, anyway. To make sure you were safe."  
"Right. And… I am, safe. Thank you." Molly said, nodding.

It perplexed the detective how the ring always caught his eye. Everything was dark - the corridor was dark, her flat was dark, the night outside was dark. Yet, somehow, the ring always managed to catch the littlest light from somewhere God only knew and flicker right in his line of vision.

"Go. Get some rest. And a bath." he said, with a small laugh. His eyes shone for a moment and the light of Molly's resolve went out.

"Come in, please," she whispered, stepping forward to grab his elbow.  
"You know, I can't," he whispered back. His hands were not leaving his pockets.  
"I'll take the ring off," she said, "I know it bothers you."  
"You can't take it off just because it _bothers_ you," he scoffed, "Even _I_ know that."  
"I'll take it off— if _you_ take it off, I won't put it back," she said.

They stared hard at each other, her hand still firmly on his elbow, and his hands obstinately in his pockets.

"Take it off. And it stays off." she said, almost daring him.

His hands twitched, itching to reach for her hand. The offer was tempting, but Sherlock bowed his head and nodded pensively.

"I think you might have had too much to drink too," he said with a smile as he stepped back, away from her grasp.

"Sherlock—"  
"Goodnight, Molly," he said, turning to make for the stairs, "I'm glad you're safe."

His footsteps eventually turned to echoes, and soon disappeared completely. Not moving from her spot and staring down the stairway, Molly fiddled with the ring on her finger. She pressed it so hard she could feel the edge of the gem cut into her skin.

"You always say such horrible things," she whispered into thin air. "Always, always."


	31. To Break Sometimes

_**A/N:** A songfic prompt fill for "Heart Skipped A Beat" by The xx, and "Breaking The Girl" covered by Anna Nalick._

* * *

**To Break Sometimes**

It was a terribly cold night and Molly had gone to bed under all the blankets she could find. She had wrapped herself comfortably up to her ears. So well had she wrapped herself that her phone had rung a good ten times before she heard it, finally stirring her from her sleep.

"Coming…" she murmured sleepily to no one.

Molly had not bothered to check the time, nor to see who the caller was. Swiping carelessly at the glaring screen, she answered the call.

"Hello?" she said, rubbing the back of her neck with her eyes still closed.  
"Molly."  
"Sherlock," she exclaimed. Her eyes opened immediately upon hearing his voice.  
"Could you—" he paused and seemed to choke. Or cough. She could not quite tell.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Sorry. Could you…could you come to Bart's now?" he asked quietly. There was something odd about his voice and it troubled her.  
"Of course," she answered without hesitation.  
"Thank you. A car will be sent over shortly. Do wait for it." he said.  
"Understood."

Strange calls at midnight and mysterious car pick-ups at dawn were nothing new for Molly. For a time, they had been a regular fixture of her life. Especially when Sherlock had been in hiding, post-'suicide'. It was mostly his brother who summoned her, but it always had to to do with the detective.

The car took her to the back of the hospital where she was met with a few familiar faces from Mycroft's staff. They greeted her with a simple nod and ushered her into the building. She was brought to one of the cold rooms that were reserved for special cases. It was where they housed the bodies of high-profile criminals, for example, or the bodies of politicians and dignitaries.

When she approached the room, she could see through the two round windows in the large swinging doors that Sherlock Holmes was already inside. He was standing very still and appeared to be looking down at something. A sight like this was nothing unusual for Molly. They were always meeting at morgues, talking over dead bodies.

She was brought in by the staff who, after pushing the doors open for her, remained outside. The room was dead quiet, with only the soft sounds of her shoes as she made her way to the detective. He was standing by the only table in the room. On it was a body, concealed entirely by a large cloth.

Molly could make out straightaway that the deceased was male, tall, and with a large shoe size to boot. She was instantly curious as to what had happened, for her to have been summoned out here in the middle of the night. When she turned to ask Sherlock what the case was about, she paused when she saw that his eyes were bloodshot and the tip of his nose was slightly pink as though he had had a cold.

No longer was she curious about the body on the table. Molly was curious, and worried, as to why the detective had been crying.

"Sherlock?" she asked, moving gently to touch his elbow.

Before her fingers could even touch the sleeve of his coat, his hand reached out to take hers as he turned swiftly to face her.

"Molly…" he uttered weakly.

She realised why his voice had sounded so strange on the phone. He had already been crying then.

"Whatever's the matter?" she asked. She automatically drew him to herself, holding him with warm, gentle arms.

Sherlock buried his face in her hair and said not a word. His heart thumped loudly against her. Not only was it loud, Molly could feel its heaviness too.

"Darling…" she whispered, realising, but not caring, that she had let the word slip, "Please tell me what's happened."

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have flinched at the word. Instead, he clutched her even tighter whilst trying to take deep, steady breaths. He had cried enough and he was not about to do so again. There were things to do.

"I need you to…process a body." he said so softly he could barely hear his own voice.

The request was neither unusual nor surprising. So many times he had diverted bodies he had picked, whether for a case or his own 'research', to her roster for her to autopsy. What she could not fathom was the state of devastation he was in.

"Okay," she answered, pulling away from him but not before giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smiled a little, but the corners of his lips still trembled.

Molly quickly popped to the adjacent room to ready herself, sanitising her hands before snapping on a pair medical gloves. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the table, where she found Sherlock standing by it again. He looked down blankly at the body as he waited for her to walk over.

She took her place on the opposite side of the table and looked up at Sherlock. He returned her gaze and stared helplessly at her. It broke her heart, so she turned her attention to the body on the table. It was time she found out what had broken _his_.

"Shall I take a look now?" she asked, looking up at him.  
"Please," he said, nodding.  
"Do you know the cause of death?" she asked, as professionally as she could. She knew he would prefer it that way.  
"Yes," he answered, "A bullet to the heart."  
"A murder then," said Molly  
"Yes—" his voice diminished again, "A murder."  
"So you already know the cause of death,"  
"I do," he answered.  
"What do you need from me now?" she asked.

He blinked at her, then bowed his head. Molly waited for him to say something, but he did not. Instead, he removed the leather glove off his right hand and stretched to touch the top corner of the cloth. Sherlock inhaled, as though bracing himself, and Molly could hear his breath tremble. Deftly, he lifted the pale fabric off the body, pulling it back just enough to reveal the face and the shoulders of the deceased.

It was Molly's turn to cry. She slapped her hand across her mouth as a single stream of hot tears slid silently down her face.

"He was ambushed," began the detective, his voice shaking terribly.

Molly remained speechless and struggled to breathe between her sobs.

"I didn't see it. He didn't see it. We never saw it coming…" the detective said with a sad laugh.

Molly did not let him continue. She rushed over to Sherlock and held him. His heart was beating erratically and his skin burned from the sorrow that ran through him.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," she whispered against his shirt, "I am so sorry."  
"Don't be…" he said, with a small laugh as his tears fell, "You know my brother. He would have frowned to see us both crying."

At his words, they both broke down and sobbed. Quietly, the pair cried in each other's arms. If there ever was a time to break, it was now. Sometimes, there was nothing else to do _but_ break.

The pain of loss Molly felt and that of Sherlock's was too much for her to bear. Her mind had gone blank from shock, and blurry from sorrow. Molly clung on to Sherlock fiercely, wishing she had the power to do something, to change things. It was Sherlock who pulled them both apart, but kept his arms around her waist. Molly tried to steady her breathing, to gather her wits about herself. Sherlock cleared his throat and brushed wisps of tear-soaked hair away from her face. She smiled lovingly at him, tiptoeing to kiss him earnestly on one cheek, then on the other. She stepped back down and lifted her hand, running her thumb over his cheekbone to wipe the streaks of tear stains left.

"What do you need?" she asked softly, her fingers lingering on the side of his face.

Sherlock smiled bittersweetly, taking her into his arms and as he held her tightly. He shut his eyes, breathing in her proximity.

"You." he answered simply, "Just you."


	32. Numbers

**_A/N: _**_A songfic prompt fill for: "505" by The Arctic Monkeys. xx  
_

_**Rated T for language and suggestive themes**_

* * *

**Numbers**

There were few things that Sherlock Holmes lost count of. It was afternoon, and he had found time between a case to pay a small vanity call. As he casually browsed the Dior Homme racks for a crisp new suit, he thought about his impending visit to Molly, the one who had saved him. He recalled the countless times he had slept in Molly's bed. Since she had had to cover for him when he faked his death, he had been a frequent visitor to her flat, insisting to her that it was the safest place there was. She had eventually prepared a spare room for him of course, but he never got round to using it.

Running his fingers over the pristine collar of a possible purchase, he found himself smirking. Sure, he could not remember the times he had slept in her bed, but he certainly remembered — and kept count of — the times he, well, _they_ had _not_ slept in her bed. It was bound to happen, and it had. What Sherlock had not deduced then was how deeply those specific moments with her would be etched in his mind.

Nevertheless, since leaving for Serbia, he had not had the means to _visit_. Now that he was back, and back for good, it was time to set things right. Sherlock Holmes was no sentimental creature, but he had come to learn that when one had something precious, it was foolish to let it go.

"I'll take these two…and the dark blue dinner jacket there." he said to the young sales assistant. The young bespectacled man nodded and scurried off to process the detective's purchases. Just then, his phone chimed with an incoming message. Swiping swiftly at the screen, he read his brother's message and a small smile played on his lips.

"Perfect," he said to himself as he slipped the phone back into his trouser pocket, "I'd always wanted to go there."

* * *

Molly was having fun. She had not felt like this in a long time. It was good to have taken half a day off work just to indulge in herself a little for a change. She had spent the afternoon catching up on DVDs she had wanted to watch whilst painting her nails a rich burgundy colour. It was the colour she had decided on after having finally decided on her outfit for the evening.

She took her time getting dressed, making sure she was satisfied with her ensemble for dinner. Monochrome was the palette she had gone for, with a sleeveless and slightly billowy silk top tucked into crisp, black high-waisted crepe trousers. Her hair was pulled back into a low, neat ponytail and she wore no jewellery.

"Let's hope he isn't late," she murmured to her reflection as she lightly brushed on some mascara, "We've been dying to try out that restaurant."

Barely had she re-inserted the mascara brush back into its tube when she heard her doorbell ring. She smiled to herself and quickly gathered her coat and bag and made for the door.

"Not only are you not late, you're on ti— Oh." she exclaimed when she saw who it was at her door.

The detective had a single rose in his hand and was dressed impeccably in the brand new suit he had purchased that afternoon. With a rather cocky half smile, Sherlock handed Molly the rose then quickly tucked both hands into his trouser pockets.

"Molly," he greeted with a nod.  
"Sherlock, hello," she said, a little perplexed, "I thought you were in Serbia."  
"I was," he said, "But duty called and Mycroft needed me back. So here I am."  
"Why didn't he tell me?" she asked.  
"I told him not to," said Sherlock, "Was hoping to tell you myself."  
"Oh, well I — Sorry, I'm being rude, um, would you like to come in?" she asked, moving to put her things down.  
"No, no, I heard you were going to dinner." he said.  
"Yes, with my, um…"  
"Boyfriend?"  
"I mean to say _date_. But I suppose he is becoming one…"  
"Of course. Well, congratulations." he said, stepping forward.

Sherlock reached for her and pulled her to him, kissing her slowly and deeply, relishing the way his memories of her now came back to life. It was as though the notion of her date, or boyfriend, had never been brought up. He made sure to kiss her the way he liked, and then the way _she_ liked, clutching her hips tightly.

"Wha— Why?" she asked breathlessly, when he finally stopped.  
"I was just congratulating you," he remarked, smirking, "Have a good dinner."

With a wink, the detective turned from her and headed back out of her flat. Molly cleared her throat and was glad she had not applied her lipstick yet. She was also glad her date had not shown up. With a sharp exhale, she shook off the tingling she felt under her skin and headed back to her room to settle her lipstick.

Thankfully, her date, Tom, had not arrived too late. A short cab ride later, they both arrived at the restaurant. They were ushered in to their reserved table where they were both handed the wine list and menus. Molly opened the leather-bound menu excitedly, perusing it carefully.

It was about halfway through the menu when Molly felt a pair of eyes staring very intently at her. At first, she thought it was Tom, but when she looked up, he too had his head buried in the menu. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Shrugging, Molly resumed reading the menu when the feeling came back again. Looking up sharply, she scanned the restaurant this time, trying to see if anyone was watching her from among the sea of faces.

Molly had not been mistaken. Just two tables in front of her was Sherlock, casually drumming his fingers on the table as he stared straight at her. When he saw that she had noticed him, he smiled at her, then turned away to sip his wine.

The sight of Sherlock instantly brought her back to his sudden kiss in her flat that happened barely half an hour ago. She felt a soft, warm flush creep up her cheeks and she hoped in earnest that she was not blushing.

"_God_…" she whispered.  
"What's that?" Tom asked, looking up from his menu.  
"Nothing, nothing," she answered cheerfully, "Just…really happy they've got swordfish on the menu."

Her date smiled and resumed looking at his menu. Molly sighed with relief and hid behind hers. She cursed silently at the way memories of Sherlock now flooded her mind. God, she had missed him. And of all times to recall that, it had to be _now_.

Suddenly, it struck her. Of course she would recall it _now_ — that had been his intent from the start, from the moment his consulting arse stepped foot into her flat and pressed his mouth to hers. Molly decided that this would not do. He had no right to do this to her, and she was going to put a stop to it.

"Tom, I just need to quickly pop over to the ladies'…" she said, getting up from her chair.  
"Of course," he answered, as Molly bent to kiss him lightly on the lips.  
"Just five minutes," she said, "Won't be long."

She walked past Tom and in the direction of where the detective was seated. Sherlock's gaze had returned to her and it followed her as she headed towards him. Molly quickly turned around to see if Tom was looking, and was glad his nose was now buried in the wine list. When she reached Sherlock's table, she whispered something quickly to him and he got up and followed her. The two of them headed to the back of the restaurant where they found one of the restaurant's many lavish individual powder rooms and locked themselves in.

The detective settled himself on one of the lush sofas and looked innocently up at Molly. He tilted his head to the empty space beside him, silently offering her a seat. Molly folded her arms and glared at him in response.

"What are you trying to do?" she asked sternly.  
"To tell you I've come back," he replied nonchalantly, "And back for good."  
"Well, I'm happy for you," she said, "Really, I am."  
"Then why are you so worked up?" he asked with a smirk.

That smile of his irked her. It made her want very much to injure that ridiculously beautiful face, knock out some teeth, perhaps.

"I'm having dinner, with my boyfr—"  
"Date," he corrected, "You said date just now."  
"_Sherlock Holmes_," Molly said fiercely, remembering not to raise her voice.

He smiled wryly, got up and walked up to where she was standing.

"Yes?" he whispered, staring down at her.

Molly looked up at the clear eyes that burned right into hers. This was both confusing and utterly clear at the same time. She would always love Sherlock Holmes, that much was clear. However, she had also successfully moved on, had she not? That was the confusing part. Although it was very clear that this date had no longer become one with Tom. Sherlock Holmes had taken over.

"_Fuck_—" she muttered quietly. The detective had taken another step towards her and she stopped him, placing both palms against his chest.

"Gladly," he said, slipping one arm around her waist, whilst removing the relenting hands from his chest.

Then, they kissed. Slowly, quietly and desperately.

"You mustn't look at me like that," she whispered, her lips barely departing from his.  
"I can _only_ look at you like that," he whispered back before taking her mouth again.

They finally paused to catch their breaths. Molly leaned her forehead against his chest and chuckled softly. Sherlock had his hands around her as he smiled, kissing the top of her hair. He had not lost her, and every fibre of him was relieved beyond words.

"What am I going to tell Tom?" she asked, frustrated. Molly had begun gently hitting her head against his chest.

The detective laughed at what she was doing and stopped her, placing two fingers beneath her chin and lifting her face to his.

"Here's what you tell him…" the detective began.

* * *

The speeding cab felt like a crawling snail to Molly. She sat in it, impatient, with one leg crossed over the other. When it finally stopped at Baker Street, she sped up the stairs and burst into the flat, heading straight for the detective's room. The door had been left open and he was still in his suit, seated by the edge of his bed, smoking a cigarette.

"I thought you'd quit," she said, smirking as she shut the door behind her.  
"I had," he said, taking one last drag, "But I needed something to take the edge off."  
"Take what edge off?" she asked, sauntering towards him.  
"The anxiety." he replied, chucking the cigarette into an ashtray, "I was anxious."  
"Anxious?"  
"Yu-p." he said, reaching to pull her towards him.

Molly was now stood in front of the detective, who stared up intently at her.

"What for?" she asked, gently touching the side of his face.  
"For you," he murmured, pulling her down with him to bed.

Molly now lay on top of him, propped up on all fours. She smiled playfully at him as his eyes shone at her like stars.

"Why would you be anxious for me?" she asked, her mouth hovering dangerously close to his.  
"Because the current count is zero," he explained, toying with the fabric of her top.  
"Of?"

Sherlock laughed softly and then pulled her down for a kiss.

"Of you, here…" he whispered, drawing her towards him once more, "In _my_ bed."


	33. High Places

_**A/N: **This is a combination of two prompts:_

_1) Molly moves to another place after the whole Fauxiarty business. their reunion after an year or so, perhaps?_

_and _

_2) Two song prompts: PJ Harvey's "You Said Something" and Nick Cave's "Into My Arms"._

_Hope you'll enjoy what I've done with them. :) x_

* * *

**High Places**

It was for her safety that she had been relocated. Had it been any other situation, Molly would have protested the move, but when Mycroft himself came to speak to her, to coax her to leave England, she relented. No one cared more for her than he did, and she knew better than to argue with someone like him.

"You're a very formidable person, Molly," Mycroft had said, "But so is this enemy of ours. I should not like to lose someone like you."

Everything had been arranged for her and before she could even say goodbye to anyone, she found herself on a plane to New York. Mycroft had found her a similar post in a hospital there, and kept her under constant surveillance. When she had deemed the surveillance unnecessary, he reminded her that while Moriarty - or whichever incarnation of this madman was - was physically in England waging war with them, the criminal mastermind's reach was not one that was geographically bound.

"I owe it to _you_, to keep you alive, Molly." he had said, "Please. You saved my brother. It is the least I can do."

His brother — the thought of him was a complicated one. Molly thought of Sherlock most on her breaks, when she would sneak up to the hospital rooftop with a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. There was something refreshing about being up high, about having the wind in one's face. It was a little chilly this evening, but it still did the trick. Molly had forgotten how sleep-deprived she was feeling, and the little tension headache she was nursing seemed to have dissipated.

It was a little hard to believe that a year had passed. The effects of it were there though. She had made a few good friends, her little apartment was beginning to feel like home and she had even found a favourite bakery. All these were little things that told her she had finally started to settle down. It felt good, and she felt safe. Once in a while, she would recognise a few familiar faces, signs of Mycroft keeping tabs on her, but it made her smile. It was nice to be reminded of home, no matter how strangely the reminders were presented.

Tonight, she had just finished her lab reports and was savouring a short break before her shift at the morgue began. She sipped slowly from a cup of clam chowder and was glad of the warmth it was providing. She looked out at the scenery ahead of her, and then stole a peek down at the street below. Looking down always sent a shot of melancholy through her. It made her think of Sherlock, and what might have run through his head before he 'jumped'.

Did she still love the man? Perhaps. Moving away from home was, in part, a gesture of her love for him. If it made things less dangerous, if it made the case easier to solve, Molly would have flown to outer space if she had to. Looking down at the blur of lights and passing cars was her litmus test. It was her way of seeing if she still loved him - at least for that moment. She smirked at the answer for the day. They would never be a part of each other's lives anymore, so there really was no point in feeling that way.

Molly checked her watch and saw she had ten minutes left to her shift. Sighing, she took her empty cup and turned to make for the stairwell. As she walked towards the little black door, it opened suddenly, causing her to step back in shock. There was nothing more unnerving than running into someone with the expectation of being the only person there.

"You've cut your hair," she said, unable to stop a small smile.  
"Just a trim." answered the tall man in his instantly recognisable coat, "It was for a case."  
"Looks good," she remarked, not realising how tightly she was gripping her cup.  
"Thank you," he answered with a half-smile of his own.

He walked over to her and prised the cup from her death grip. She laughed when she realised how tightly she had been holding it and watched as he tossed it in an empty cardboard box that had been lying around.

"Stressed?" he asked, walking to stand by the ledge of the rooftop they were on.  
"More shocked than stressed, really." she answered, moving to stand beside him.

The breeze up where they were quickened and swept Molly's hair into her eyes. She quickly pushed the unruly wisps from her face and attempted to re-tie her hair. Her hands moved deftly, sweeping her long brown hair into a neat ponytail. Sherlock watched her quietly as she battled with the wind in her hair, and smiled to himself.

It was _really_ good to see her.

"You left this bit out," he said, reaching to control a few brown wisps, tucking them behind her ear.

When she was done, she turned to face him. She never thought she would see him again. This was most unexpected, and rather lovely.

"I've cancelled your shift at the morgue, by the way," he said matter-of-factly, turning around to lean his back against the parapet.

His words made Molly chuckle. She shook her head and folded her arms, turning to glare at him with a mix of amusement and affection.

"I haven't seen you in _one year_ and the first thing you do is cancel my shift at work," she chided but grinned the entire time.  
"Just interrupting your life," he said with a smirk, "As is my modus operandi."  
"I certainly didn't miss that," she said, with a laugh.

The detective smiled as he gazed at her, secretly delighting in the fact that she was smiling. Seeing her safe, happy and out of harm's way gave him more satisfaction than he had imagined it would.

"How did you manage to pull that off _here_ anyway?" she asked, "This isn't your…territory."  
"I have friends in high places." he answered a little smugly.  
"God, you make me want to punch you, you know?" she remarked, amused.  
"I know," he answered, smiling in return.

They stood in silence for a bit, with only the distant honking of cars and the slight whistle of the cold air interrupting them. Standing around each other in absolute silence was certainly not uncommon practice for them. Had not their whole working relationship been founded on silence, and standing around?

"So, um…" he paused to clear his throat, "Now that you're shift's been cancelled…"  
"Y-es?" she responded, raising an eyebrow.  
"Have you…any plans?" he asked. His words were starting to jam in his brain.  
"Well, since I'd only _just_ cancelled it…I hadn't thought about it," she said with a smirk.

He laughed quietly and wrapped his coat a little tighter around himself. The sharp wind was starting to get to him.

"Should we go somewhere warm?" he asked.  
"_We_?" Molly asked, eyeing him with amusement.  
"I'm staying at a rather lovely hotel," he said, "It's certainly warmer than out here."  
"I also have a rather lovely flat," she said, "It's warmer, and far cosier than a hotel room, I imagine."  
"Good. That's settled then." he said, straightening from the parapet and adjusting his coat.  
"What is?" she asked, folding her arms again.  
"We're headed to your place," he said, with a smile.

Molly shook her head and smiled. It was her turn to lean against the parapet as she looked up at him.

"Come on, lead the way," he whispered, moving to stand in front of her.

His handsome face loomed over hers, and the proximity sent a wave of nostalgia through her bones. His face was gentle, and he had that subtle smile of his that could only be seen up close. What little light that shone from the city around them reflected as little specks in his eyes.

"I don't see you for one year," she repeated, smirking, "And you're already barging your way into my flat?"  
"I always barge my way into your flat," he quipped, "I was just held up a bit."  
"You're a very funny man, Sherlock Holmes," said Molly.  
"So I've been told," he quipped.  
"Well, if you're so clever…"  
"Yes?"  
"Find your own way there," she whispered, patting the lapel of his coat before walking away.

* * *

After having confirmed that her shift really had been cancelled, Molly made her way back to her apartment. It was just a short bus ride away and a five-minute walk to get to her building. As she turned the key in her doorknob, she was actually rather grateful for the time off. She had not realised how exhausted she really was until then. So exhausted was she that she had half-forgotten the reason she had the time off in the first place.

Molly kicked off her shoes, put her bag down on the first surface she could find and sauntered into her bedroom. Rubbing the back of her neck, her fingers felt for the light switch and flipped it on. She gasped when she saw Sherlock Holmes, in his crisp white shirt and dark trousers, lying down casually on her bed.

"You're home," he said, sitting up.  
"Well, this feels familiar," she smirked, undoing her hair.

Molly removed her coat and jumper, and sank into bed with a sigh. Looking up, she saw Sherlock Holmes staring down at her. His eyes were bright, blazing almost. She lifted her hand to touch his face, and could not help but smile warmly at him. It amazed her to see that he returned the smile. His smile was not cocky, or smug. Instead, it was soft and warm too.

"Look at you, barging your way into my life again," she said, stroking his cheekbone with her fingers.  
"I was going to make a joke about barging my way into your _bed_," he said, igniting laughs in the both of them.

It was his turn to place a gentle hand on the side of her face, gently remembering the feel of her skin against his fingers. She tilted her face slightly to softly kiss the fingers before they slowly trailed down the side of her neck.

"I would have liked to hear your joke," she said, smiling at him, "Would've been a first."

He chuckled softly and reached to sweep her hair away from her neck. He leaned down and kissed the side of it, shutting his eyes to capture the sensation. He then sat up again and fiddled with the collar of her blouse.

"I'm not very good at jokes," he said, smiling down at her.  
"No, you probably aren't…" Molly said with a laugh.  
"I was dead serious anyway," he quipped.

Molly laughed against his lips that met with hers in a kiss that evoked strong, almost painful memories for both. Her laughter turned to a quiet, bittersweet desperation for him as he too, kissed her with all the yearning he had concealed.

"So, what now?" she asked, her heart racing as their lips parted.  
"I don't know," he whispered, "Would you come back?"  
"Could I?" she asked back.  
"Of course," he said, kissing the side of her face, "We could go back now if you wanted."  
"And _how_ are we going to do that?" she asked with a laugh.  
"I told you. I have friends in high places…" he said, grinning.  
"Of course you do," she said, getting up and pushing him playfully away.

She got up and straightened her blouse, standing by the edge of her bed. Sherlock remained seated on her bed, eyeing her quizzically.

"Tell me something," she said, moving to his side of the bed.  
"Anything," he said.

Molly smirked and climbed carefully onto him. Sherlock very gladly reached to hold her by the hips, letting her straddle him comfortably. Her hair cascaded beautifully around her, causing the detective's heart to lurch slightly in his chest.

"What place do I have then? In all of this?" she asked quietly.

At her question, a small smile played on his lips. With both hands, he drew her face to his and kissed her.

"The highest of them all," he whispered as he took her into his arms, promising never to let anything separate them again.


	34. Words

_**A/N:** I was inspired by a head canon written by the glorious artbylexie on tumblr about how Sherlock would propose. Here is my take on her head canon.:) xx_

* * *

**Words**

"God, it's noisy…" Molly muttered, casually adjusting the orange-coloured shock blanket that had been draped around her.  
"Mm. Dreadful." echoed the detective. He too had the same orange fabric hanging over his shoulder.  
"We got him though," she said, smiling and looking up at Sherlock.  
"Yes," he replied, beaming proudly, "But we nearly lost you in the process."

Molly smirked and looked away.

"You'd have done the same thing." she said wistfully, looking out at the flurry of activity.  
"I cannot disagree." he replied, with a small tight smile.  
"So, what next?" she asked, removing the orange blanket and folding it neatly. She placed it inside the ambulance, whose open doors she had been leaning against. "Dinner?"  
"Good time to eat, I suppose, now that the case is over," said Sherlock, handing her his folded blanket to return to the ambulance as well.

The pair of them straightened their coats and were about to walk off the scene of their recently concluded adventure when Sherlock stretched his hand out to stop Molly. She paused and looked at his hand on her arm.

"What's the matter?" she asked, casually.  
"We really could have lost you," he repeated, frowning slightly.  
"But we didn't—"  
"_I_ could have lost you," he interjected, staring hard at her. "And it's only just occurred to me how dreadful that would be."  
"Better late than never, I guess." she answered with a chuckle.

To her surprise, he moved to stand in front of her, taking her hand in his.

"How long have we been — like this, Molly?" he asked, running his thumb across her knuckles.  
"Like what? A pair of crime-fighting vigilantes with a penchant for graveyards — or lovers?" she asked cheekily.  
"The latter…" he muttered, still stumped by the word and its concept.  
"A while now," she answered, smiling, "And by your standards - _ages_."

He smiled, lowering his head in slight bashfulness.

"I don't have the standard paraphernalia for this…" he began.

Molly raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"But would you take my word for this?" he asked.  
"I suppose," she answered, eyeing him carefully.  
"I'd like you to marry me, if at all possible…" said the detective, surprising them both that the words came out.  
"Oh."  
"Hmm. Yes. You have my word." he said, blinking a little too rapidly.

His brows were all furrowed and he looked like he was clenching his jaw. Molly could not help but smile to herself.

"I'd love to," she answered, looking earnestly at him, "And you have _my_ word."

He had not expected it, but his heart felt like it was about to burst. Sherlock gazed down at her bright and beautiful eyes, and beamed.

"Let's go," he whispered, leaning into her.  
"Where?" she asked, placing a gentle hand against his chest.  
"Somewhere where I can kiss you," he said quietly, "A lot."

The pair chuckled quietly in unison as they strode off unnoticed from the sights and the sounds and the lights and the crowds. The case was closed, and now, a new path had been opened.

**END**


	35. Counting

_**A/N: **A little thing I wrote inspired by yet another artwork by artbylexie which featured Sherlock gifting Molly with some flowers and coffee in the lab. There were four flowers stuck inside four testubes on a rack, with a mug of coffee in the middle. Sherlock was glancing at her from the side whilst pretending to be absorbed in his microscope slides. Hope you like this little thing I wrote :) xx_

* * *

**Counting**

"And what do we have here?" said Molly, smiling as she stared in awe at the spectacle before her.

The detective was quiet, biting the insides of his mouth as he peered with faux concentration into his microscope.

"Four daisies. And a cup of coffee." She took a quick whiff of the steaming mug. "And not the awful kind from the coffee machine too."

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, still not turning around. He lifted his head slightly away from the microscope, however, and stole a glance to his right. He saw her smile as she continued to admire the flowers. There was a little thump in his chest, but he swallowed hard in his bid to quieten his pulse.

"Test-tubes make spectacularly good vases," she said, keeping her eyes on the flowers. Molly knew he preferred to keep eye contact to a minimal, at least while they were working. "Thank you."

"Happy anniversary," he finally muttered, blinking somewhat rapidly.  
"I didn't know you were keeping count," she replied, smiling as she took a sip of the coffee.  
"From the very start." he replied, absentmindedly fiddling with the knobs of his microscope.  
"That's a nice thought," she said. It was her turn to steal a glance at him.

He saw that she had turned, and resisted following suit to meet her eyes. Sherlock did not want to be caught kissing her in the lab again.

"Unusually sentimental of you though," Molly remarked, "I wonder why you'd count something like that."

Her words made him smile. Sherlock looked up properly and glanced around. When he ascertained the lab was dead empty and there was no one lurking in the corridors outside, he got up from his seat and planted a quick kiss on Molly's cheek.

"Because _you_ count," he answered simply, stealing one more kiss before swiftly returning to his microscope.

**END**


	36. Lollipop

_**A/N:** I had received a message on tumblr with just one word, "Lollipop" and assumed this was a prompt that had come like, months after I had done this 'one word' prompt thing. Since I had a little bit of time, I wrote this little thing. Hope you'll enjoy it. x_

* * *

**Lollipop**

It had been declared an emergency. Sherlock had heard it from the girl herself. When she had put the phone down, he quite literally flew out of his flat and hopped into the first cab he could find.

When he arrived, the last thing he expected to see at the Watson's was Molly Hooper on the sofa cuddling a sleepy, but still sobbing Sophie Watson. The five-year old was clutching Molly, softly whimpering into her shoulder as she did so. Molly had one arm wrapped around the upset child and a hand gently stroking the little girl's ponytail, as if to soothe her.

The moment Molly saw him, she immediately put a finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet. Sherlock nodded and tread in quietly, sitting down in an armchair across from the girls. In his bid to be quiet, he resorted to sign language, pointing first at Molly, mouthing the word, _you_, and then making the symbol of a telephone. Molly nodded. She had understood him. It _was_ her who had helped the little girl place the call to the detective.

Sherlock had known the Watsons were away on another Harry-related family crisis, which was why Sophie had been in the care of a 'sitter' since Thursday. He had been a little miffed in the beginning that _he_ had not been asked to watch his own goddaughter, but all had been forgiven when Molly was called instead. He would have elected Molly himself for she was brave, trustworthy, and far more skilled than he was.

The little girl was sharp, like her mother, and knew immediately that someone had entered the living room. She turned her little face around, only to see the concerned face of her godfather smiling at her with the gentle smile he reserved only for this little girl.

"Do you want to tell me what's happened?" he asked, opening his arms wide to receive her.

The little girl smiled through her wet eyes and leapt from Molly into her beloved godfather's arms. Molly smiled at the sight, and took a moment to stretch her arms.

"Tea?" asked Molly, "I need some myself."  
"Please," he answered with a nod.

Leaving the two to discuss the 'emergency', Molly left to put the kettle on. As she took a breather in the kitchen, fixing her hair and splashing her face with some cold water, she could not help but chuckle and wonder how Sherlock was going to fix Sophie's little problem.

"So you lost the lollipop you were given at school?" Molly could hear Sherlock say.  
"Yes. It was Emmaline's birthday party at school. She gave us the lollipops."  
"And you're sure you put it in your bag?" asked the detective.  
"Yes, but maybe it fell out," said the little girl, "Find it for me please, Uncle Sherlock."  
"Well, I'm not sure if I can find one tiny lollipop in such a short time…" began Sherlock.

When Molly brought out the tray of tea, she was a little startled to see how crestfallen Sophie's face had become.

"But you're a detective…" Sophie pleaded, trying her best to be brave and not cry.

Sherlock laughed gently and swept her back into his arms, giving her a tight hug. He kissed the side of her face and whispered something to her, igniting a gasp of surprise from the little girl.

"Really?" she whispered excitedly in return.

Sherlock nodded, as the little girl turned to face Molly. Molly remained startled, wondering why the detective and his goddaughter were both staring at her like that.

"Y-es?" Molly asked, placing the tea tray down carefully.

Sophie trundled over to Molly and looked up at her with bright, curious eyes.

"Uncle Sherlock says you're good at science," Sophie remarked excitedly.  
"Maybe," Molly replied with a chuckle, "Why did he say that?"  
"We're going to make lollipops," interrupted the detective, reaching for his tea.  
"Yes, we are!" exclaimed Sophie, clapping her hands in delight.  
"Cooking, and making food, is science, isn't it, Sophie?" Sherlock asked, but looking up at Molly.

They exchanged looks and Molly shook her head, smirking, before nodding in agreement.

"It would take much longer for me to find your lollipop," said Sherlock to Sophie, "So if Aunty Molly is happy to help us, we should just make our own."  
"Well then if that's the case," Molly said, "We'll need to go to Uncle Sherlock's. We haven't got the right thermometers here to make lollipops."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile. Sophie had run back to his lap, her mood having been significantly lifted. He looked down at the little girl and kissed her on the cheek again.

"Looks like you should just stay over at Uncle Sherlock's," he said, looking back at Molly.  
"No, we don't have to—"

Molly was interrupted by Sophie's squeal of delight and watched helplessly as the girl bounced off to her room in her attempt to pack for staying over at her godfather's.

"Don't worry, I've kept her spare nursery in tact. John said to always keep it there. For emergencies." Sherlock explained, helping Molly carry the tea things back into the kitchen.  
"We'll be done by dinnertime, Sherlock, and we can always head back," Molly said, following him. "You're busy with the museum and their missing Mondrians, so we shouldn't trouble you more than we have already."

The detective smirked to himself as he began washing the mugs of tea.

"It's no trouble at all," he said calmly, placing the mugs under the running water.

Molly folded her arms and merely stared at him.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said, shutting the tap off and turning to face Molly.  
"Yes?" she asked.  
"You'll have to make do with my room," he remarked casually, "No problem there, I hope?"

There was a small smile on his lips and Molly shook her head, chuckling. Carefully, she looked to see if Sophie was still around before leaning to kiss him quickly on the cheek.

"None in the least," she replied before exiting the kitchen to help little Sophie Watson pack for her sweet little adventure at 221B Baker Street.

**END**


	37. Coffee

_**A/N: **__Short drabble inspired by a piece of Sherlolly artwork by sherlolly29 on tumblr :)_

* * *

**Coffee**

It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. Well, it had been at first. Molly had made a little stop at a nearby cafe, hoping to do a spot of reading with a cappuccino in hand. The cafe had been kind enough to offer her a small dish of freshly-baked biscuits as well. _You can't have coffee without a little something to nibble_, the lovely coffeeshop lady had told her.

Halfway through her drink, she was surprised to see a cup of black coffee placed on her table. The hand that had carried it had not been the coffeeshop lady's, but it had not been an unfamiliar one either.

"Molly," greeted the detective, whose hand (and choice of drink) she had recognised from the get-go.  
"Sherlock," she greeted back, raising an eyebrow, "What are you doing?"  
"Isn't it obvious?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.  
"It is never obvious with you," she answered, closing her book.

He continued to sip his drink in silence. The detective seemed utterly at ease, crossing his legs and leaning back into his seat. Spying the biscuits on the table, he reached for one and took a bite, nodding in satisfaction. Molly cleared her throat and leaned forward, her fingers fiddling with the handle of her coffee cup.

"Can I help you with something?" she rephrased, hoping he would answer her first question.  
"Oh no, I'm fine, thanks," he said with a shake of the head and a quick smile.

There was something infuriating about the way he was just sitting there, slowly enjoying his coffee and reaching for what was his second biscuit now. Molly drummed her fingers impatiently against the tablecloth, an absolute contrast to Sherlock's perfectly relaxed demeanour.

"This _is_ rather nice," said the detective, at last.

Molly exhaled sharply, not knowing whether to laugh or to slap the man. It was her turn to lean back against her seat, though more from resignation than relaxation. She crossed her arms in front of her and glared at the detective.

"What do you mean, this?" she asked.

Sherlock looked up at her from the rim of his coffee cup and stared back at her curiously. He was perplexed at her perplexity.

"This," he said, gesturing to their surroundings, "Coffee."  
"Coffee?"  
"Y-up." he said, popping the 'p' before popping another biscuit into his mouth.  
"I don't underst—"  
"It's a few years late, I suppose…" he continued casually.

Molly gasped in shock when he suddenly reached for her hand, bringing it up to his face as though he were examining it.

"What are you doing?" she whispered fiercely.  
"Just being sure," he said, smiling quickly as he gently placed her hand down on the table.  
"Of what?" Molly said, withdrawing her hand quickly.  
"That you weren't engaged anymore,"  
"Of course, I'm not engaged anymore." Molly remarked, a little sharply.  
"Good. Which is why we're here, doing this," explained the detective, gesturing once more to the cafe they were in. "I was four years too late, thought I missed the chance. I'm not missing it again."

A silence passed between them, as Molly struggled to make sense of what he was saying and what he was _possibly_ meaning.

"You don't mea—"  
"Yes. I do." he interrupted, reaching for her hand that she had withdrawn, "Now, that we've settled coffee. Would you like to have dinner?"

**END**


	38. Symbolism

_**A/N:** There was a picture of a rubber duck that resembled Molly making its rounds on the Sherlolly tag on tumblr and someone tagged me, asking if I could come up with something. This is what I came up with :) x_

* * *

"This one, daddy, this one," said Sophie Watson, tugging at the end of her father's coat as she pointed to the item on the shelf.  
"This one?" he asked, laughing, "Why?"  
"Because I know he'll love it," said the little girl, "I know he will."  
"If you say so," John replied, taking the object and heading to the cashier to pay for it.

::

"So, how was the holiday?" asked Sherlock, as John took sat down in his armchair.

"Lovely. Good to get away for a bit. Oh, which reminds me…"

John reached into his satchel and took out a small paper bag and handed it to the detective.

"What's this?" asked Sherlock, taking the bag.  
"Some detective you are," John smirked, "A souvenir. Sophie picked it just for you."  
"Did she?" he remarked, smiling.

Sherlock peered into the bag and his eyes lit up in amusement. He put his hands in and pulled out a small rubber duck, a child's play thing at bath time. It was no ordinary rubber duck though, for it had been outfitted with a white doctor's coat, a stethoscope and a little blue file in hand. It had even been given a hairstyle; reddish brown locks braided at the back.

There was a small smirk on the detective's lips as he held the duck in his hands. John eyed him, raising an eyebrow.

"She said you'd love it," John began, "Insisted I bought it."  
"And she's right. I do," answered Sherlock simply as he balanced the duck carefully on his kneecap.  
"What are you going to do with it?" asked John, leaning over curiously.  
"_Not_ put it in the bath of course," answered the detective.  
"Why not?" That is where it's supposed to be…"

John was interrupted by the sound of Sherlock chuckling quietly to himself as he tossed the duck in the air, catching it easily with his hands.

"You don't know why she got it, do you?" Sherlock asked.  
"I've got an idea, yeah," John said, leaning back in his seat.  
"Good, then you'll know why it stays on the mantlepiece, and not in the bath…" said Sherlock.  
"What, you've already got a doctor in the bath?" John joked, staring up at his friend.

The detective returned his best friend's gaze whilst trying his best to suppress a smile.

"In a matter of speaking, yes," he said, before turning around to make his way down the corridor of rooms.

John's smiling face turned to that of confusion, before switching to utter shock as Sherlock's words slowly sank in.

"Oh, and on that note," came the detective's voice, "You might want to stay out of my room."

**END**


	39. A Moment

_**A/N: **__Inspired by a beautifully poignant sketch by the utterly talented artbylexie on tumblr of Molly and Sherlock embracing. It's a stunning piece of artwork. So I had to come up with something that I hope can at least carry a small semblance of the artwork's poignancy. x_

* * *

**A Moment **

Molly sighed, rubbing at a knot in her shoulder, as she made her way to the lab. It was some unearthly hour and the lab was dead quiet of course. She had had a late night helping a colleague with a shift at the morgue and had come to return some files she had used.

Accustomed to the layout of the lab, Molly flipped only one switch which barely illuminated the large, sterile space. As she made her way to the shelf she was looking for, she nearly dropped everything when she spotted a tall man sitting on a lone lab stool. She did not stay shocked for long, however, for she soon recognised that height and that posture.

It was Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, and she smiled at seeing his silhouette. As she approached the familiar figure, she began to worry when she noticed his shoulders drooping a little more forward than usual. However, his head remained upright and he seemed to be staring into space. When she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, it was his turn to get a shock.

"Oh! It's you —" he exclaimed with a start.  
"Yes, it's me," she answered, smiling gently at him. "What are y—"

Before Molly could complete her sentence, he had pulled her into an embrace, causing the files in her arms to drop. When she felt the tension in his arms and saw the frown on his face, Molly let him sink into her frame as she brought her hands up cradle his head against her chest. Her fingers ran themselves through his dark locks as she kissed the top of his head.

"Bad day, was it?" she whispered, her lips moving against his forehead.

Sherlock did not answer. He merely tightened his grip around her, took a deep breath and sighed as he buried his face in her dark auburn tresses. For a moment, the frustration of another dead lead and the burden of an unsolved case did not seem so giant anymore. The problems were still there, but he could put them aside for a while.

It certainly was a bad day. Or at least it _had_ been.

**END**


End file.
